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Cngltef) &eabmg£ for g>c(jQote 

GENERAL EDITOR 

WILBUR LUCIUS CROSS 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN YALE UNIVERSITY 




Robert Louis Stevenson 

From a photograph by James Notman 



STEVENSON'S 
INLAND VOYAGE 

AND 

TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

EDITED BY 

EDWIN MIMS 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA 




NEW YORK 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1911 



4&* 



Copyright, ign, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS 

©CU300147 



CONTENTS 

Introduction page 

I. Stevenson's Life and Works vii 

II. An Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey . xxi 

Descriptive Bibliography xxvii 

An Inland Voyage (with original preface and dedication) i 

Travels with a Donkey (with original preface) . . 131 

Notes and Comment (with questions) 265 



Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson . 

Portrait of Sir Walter Grindlay Simpson 

The Willebroek Canal .... 

Our Lady of the Snows . . . 

Map of Belgium (An Inland Voyage) 

Map of Southern France (Travels with a Donkey) 



frontispiece 



7 
137 
264 
280 



INTRODUCTION 



STEVENSON'S LIFE AND WORKS 

In the lives of few men is the study of ancestral influ- 
ences so important as in that of Robert Louis Stevenson, 
who was born in Edinburgh, November 13, 1850. In his 
last days in the South Sea islands he wrote: "The ascend^ 
ant hand is what I feel most strongly ; I am bound in anq 
in with my forbears . . . I see like a vision the youth 
of my father and of his father, and the whole stream of 
lives flowing down there far in the north, with the sound 
of laughter and tears, to cast me out in the end on these 
ultimate islands." At the time he wrote these words he 
was preparing the volume which he left unfinished at his 
death, A Family of Engineers, in which he made a special 
study of his father's family and more particularly of his 
grandfather, Robert Stevenson, whose story of the build- 
ing of the Bell Rock Lighthouse has been called " the 
Romance of Lime and Stone by the Robinson Crusoe of 
Civil Engineering." The spirit of adventure, the love of 
the sea, and the resourceful industry of Robert Stevenson 
were inherited by his son, Thomas Stevenson, through 
whose efforts at the building of lighthouses and in the 
perfection of the revolving lens " a safer landfall awaits 
the mariner in all parts of the world." Thomas, a sketch 
of whom is contained in his son's Memories and For- 



viii Introduction 

traits, was a singularly interesting personality, " command- 
ing a gift of humorous and figurative speech second only to 
that of his more famous son." His character was a for- 
tunate influence in his son's life; he furnished him with 
incidents for stories, offered him criticisms of his writings, 
and provided him with money that enabled him to pursue 
a literary career. 

Scarcely less significant was the influence of his mother 
(Isabella Balfour) and her family; for Stevenson was 
also the " grandson of the manse." In his complex nature 
there was something of the Shorter Catechist. He cher- 
ished the belief that the blood of the Covenanters flowed 
in his veins. His mother's father was Rev. Lewis Balfour, 
a portrait of whom may be found in Memories and Por- 
traits: " He moves in my blood, and whispers words to me, 
and sits efficient in the very knot and center of my being." 
Hence came that other characteristic strain in Stevenson's 
life, that of the preacher, who appears so often in his 
essays and letters. From his mother, too, came his in- 
herent optimism, a resolute refusal to see the unpleasant 
side of things, and " that readiness for enjoyment which 
makes light of discomfort." Her vivacity and brightness 
contrasted strangely with the innate severity and even mel- 
ancholy of the Stevensons. 

From his mother Stevenson inherited a frail consti- 
tution; he breathed from infancy the atmosphere of the 
sickroom. And his boyhood he described as one " full of 
fever, nightmare, insomnia, painful days, and interminable 
nights." There are few more pathetic passages about 
childhood than his poem " The Sick Child " in the Child's 
Garden of Verses. And yet his natural spirit of adven- 
ture, combined with the optimism of his mother, enabled 
him to escape into a world of imagination. His faithful 
nurse, Alison Cunningham (always spoken of as "Cum- 



Introduction ix 

mie "), read to him from the Bible, taught him the Shorter 
Catechism, told him stories of the Covenanters, and initi- 
ated him into the love of beautiful sounds by reciting the 
old Scotch hymns, " gloating on the rhythm, dwelling with 
delight on assonances and alliterations." From the severity 
of this " Covenanting childhood " the imaginative boy had 
various ways of escape. At Colinton Manse, where his 
grandfather Balfour lived, he reveled in the gardens and 
in the exciting stories found in the otherwise serious li- 
brary; at night, while others were drawn around the fire- 
side, the boy would make for himself a corner over behind 
the sofa, where he would play at Indians and rehearse 
the stones of Scott. In his Edinburgh home he had toy- 
theaters, the figures of which were supplied at a book- 
store near by his home. He edited magazines, the char- 
acteristic name of one of which was The Sunbeam. 
Later, as he grew more vigorous, he engaged in the more 
robust sports of horseback-riding and skating. He became 
one of the lantern-bearers — a group of boys who wandered 
about the streets at night, " each with a bull's-eye lantern 
buckled to the w T aist upon a cricket belt and over them a 
buttoned top-coat." 

Is not the future romancer suggested in this summary 
of the dreams of childhood? — " I listened for news of the 
great world upon whose edge I stood. I listened for 
delightful plots that I might re-enact in play, and ro- 
mantic scenes and circumstances that I might call up 
before me, with closed eyes, when I was tired of Scotland 
and home and that weary prison of the sick-chamber in 
which I lay so long in durance." In answer to a criticism 
as to the reality of Treasure Island, he once said, doubt- 
less having in mind his own childhood, " There never was 
a child but has hunted gold and been a pirate, and a 
military commander, and a bandit of the mountains, but 



x Introduction 

has fought, and suffered shipwreck and prison, and im- 
brued its little hands in gore, and gallantly retrieved 
the lost battle, and triumphantly protected innocence and 
beauty." 

Emphasis is laid upon such passages and incidents rather 
than upon any formal education, for Stevenson never owed 
much to private tutors and private schools. He owed 
more to his travels in Germany (1862), Italy (1863), and 
Southern France ( 1 864 ) . He was, as he tells us in his most 
characteristic essay, pointed out as " the pattern of an 
idler " throughout his youth. He read extensively and imi- 
tated the writers he read. This " idleness " was continued 
at Edinburgh University, where he went in 1867 with the 
avowed purpose of fitting himself to be an engineer. Only 
one of his professors made any impression on him, and that 
was due not to any discipline of the classroom, but rather 
to his personal charm and to his encouragement of ama- 
teur theatricals. Stevenson was a member of the Specu- 
lative Society, a group of interesting fellow-students in 
whose conversations and debates he delighted. He took an 
active part in the projection of a college magazine, which 
ran through four numbers, — long enough, it may be said, 
to give the young writer his first taste of publicity. 

Of more importance in Stevenson's training for an engi- 
neer and in his love of adventure were the vacations spent 
in the furtherance of his father's engineering plans. In 
1868 he spent several weeks at Wick, with " its grey 
shores, grim grey houses, grim grey sea." On that occa- 
sion he wrote to his mother: "I have had a long, hard 
day's work in cold, wind, and almost incessant rain. We 
got a lighter and a boat, and were at it till half-past 
seven, doing laborer's work, pulling, hauling, and tug- 
ging." In 1869 he went with his father on the Pharos 
to the Orkneys and Shetlands, — in part, the same cruise 



Introduction xi 

as that on which his grandfather had once attended Sir 
Walter Scott. The next year he spent three weeks on the 
little island of Earraid, which later served him as the 
background of one of the most exciting incidents in 
Kidnapped. 

Of the value of all this experience he afterwards wrote: 
"It takes a man into the open air; it keeps him hanging 
about harbor sides, which is the richest form of idling, it 
carries him to wild islands." And then he suggested the 
difficulty, for him at least, of following the profession: 
" And when it has done so, it takes him back and shuts 
him in an office. From the roaring skerry and the wet 
thwart of the tossing boat, he passes to the stool and 
desk." Stevenson enjoyed adventures, but not the pretty 
niceties of drawing or the several pages of consecutive 
drawing. In a word, he could not " balance one part of 
genuine life against two parts of drudgery between four 
walls." 

For this reason, then, Stevenson, in 1871, got the con- 
sent of his father to abandon the plan of becoming an 
engineer. If he had followed his own inclination, he 
would then have begun his literary career; but his father 
felt that he ought to have a more substantial profession. 
So for four years he was nominally studying law, pass- 
ing his examinations, and making a feeble attempt for a 
few months to practice in the courts. He felt but little 
interest in the law, however, finding in it not even the 
attraction that there was in the outdoor life of the 
engineer. So by 1 873 he was passing through a rather 
critical period in his life. Unable to do the work that 
he wanted to do, he became unsettled in purpose — " torn 
hither and thither by fifty conflicting currents of specula- 
tion, impulse, and desire." He was in danger of being 
drawn into a Bohemian life, frequenting as he did some 



xii Introduction 

of the haunts of altogether unconventional people. He 
was at one time all but a socialist, so sympathetic did he 
become with the less fortunate people of his city. Fur- 
thermore, he had serious religious doubts, his maturer 
judgment and unsettled life leading him into sharp reac- 
tion against the severe faith of his childhood. For the 
only time in his life, save one, there was a serious mis- 
understanding with his parents, his father especially being 
dogmatic and severe. 

Several forces conspired to save him, — notably a group 
of sympathetic friends w T ho gathered about him. The 
chief of these were: his cousin Robert A. M. Steven- 
son, the favorite of his childhood playmates, who re- 
turned to Edinburgh after an absence of several years; 
Professor Fleeming Jenkin, at whose house he was to spend 
some of the most pleasant hours of his life and to whose 
memory he af terwards paid a loving tribute in a biography ; 
and Sir Walter Simpson, the intimate companion of 
many of his journeys, and later of the canoe voyage. What 
these friends meant to him at this period of greensickness 
and morbidity, is suggested in Stevenson's own words 
about his cousin "Bob": "To be growing, finding new 
ideas and not to have a confidante, is an astounding misery. 
I thought I minded for nothing when I found my Faith- 
ful; I was done with the sullens forever; and there was 
an end of greensickness for my life as soon as I had got a 
friend to laugh with." 

His books were likewise a refuge and inspiration. It 
was a good day for him when he began to read the New 
Testament. The sweet reasonableness of the Gospels ap- 
pealed to him strongly: for the rest of his life he drew 
many sharp contrasts between the religion of Christ and 
the sterner mandates of the Law. There is the note of 
devotion in the sentences in which he records the end of the 



Introduction xiii 

struggle through which he passed: "I came about like a 
well-handled ship. There stood at the wheel that un- 
known steersman whom we call God." 

Coincident with his moral and intellectual victory came 
an increasing assurance as to his literary work. In the 
summer of 1873 he met at the house of a kinswoman in 
Suffolk the w T ell-known critic, Sidney Colvin, who was 
immediately attracted to him by his brilliant conversa- 
tion and by the unmistakable evidences of his genius. " He 
had only to speak," says Colvin, " to be recognized in the 
first minute for a witty and charming gentleman, and 
within the first five for a master spirit and man of genius." 
Colvin at once encouraged him to follow the career of let- 
ters. When in the following winter Stevenson was 
ordered to go to Southern France on account of his health, 
Colvin visited him at Mentone, introduced him to An- 
drew Lang, gave him suggestions as to the kind of work he 
might do and as to possible editors and publishers. On his 
return in the spring, Stevenson became a member of the 
Savile Club of London, where he met Edmund Gosse, 
Leslie Stephen, and other men of letters, who became at 
once his friends and most sympathetic critics. 

It was fortunate that just at this period Stevenson 
should have spent much time in and near Paris. Each 
year from 1875 to 1879 inclusive, he lived for weeks or 
months in close intimacy with the artist colonies of Fon- 
tainebleau, Barbizon, Grez, and Nemours; and was all 
the while in easy reach of Paris, with its galleries, its 
theaters, and its cafes. The outdoor life ministered to his 
good health, while the natural beauty of the country in 
spring and autumn left its impress on some of the most 
poetical pages in his essays. One of the best passages in 
" Talks and Talkers " tells of " three young men who" 
walked together for some two months in a solemn and 



xiv Introduction 

beautiful forest and in cloudless summer weather." One 
of these young men was his cousin " Bob " ; the other might 
have been either Simpson or the American artist, Will 
H. Low. And these were not the only friends with whom 
he enjoyed the hospitality of Siron's Inn, " that excellent 
artists' harrack." 

Aside from the recreation he received from his walks 
in the forest, aside from the enjoyment of his friends, was 
the influence of the very atmosphere of art he breathed. 
He who had lived in Edinburgh where the artist's life 
was held in little regard, who had had to struggle to get 
the permission of his father to follow literature, found 
himself in the best place in the world to encourage art. 
He himself says in his essay on " Fontainebleau ": " There 
is something in the very air of France that communicates 
the love of style. Precision, clarity, the cleanly and crafty 
employment of material, a grace in the handling, apart 
from any value in the thought, seem to be acquired by the 
mere residence. . . . The air of Paris is alive with this 
technical inspiration." In a word, he was learning that art 
is a trade ; while he seemed to be an idler, his life was one 
of a steady and growing industry in the perfection of his 
style. 

The fact is that no English writer since the eighteenth 
century has been so influenced by France. Stevenson 
could speak French so well that he was frequently taken 
for a Frenchman, albeit of another province. He could 
write French well, too, as the idiomatic passages in his 
two- books of travel go to show. What is more to the 
point is, that his English style, in its clearness, its flexi- 
bility, and its melody, shows the influence of French style. 
His essays on Victor Hugo, Frangois Villon, Charles of 
Orleans, the frequent references in his letters and essays 
to French writers, his tribute to his masters, Montaigne 



Introduction xv 

and Dumas, all illustrate his accurate and extensive knowl- 
edge of French literature; while his short stories, A 
Lodging for the Night, Providence mid the Guitar, Sire 
de Maledrmt's Door, and The Treasure of Franc hard 
grew out of his reading and observations in this fruitful 
period of his career. Several of the best chapters in The 
Wrecker are strictly autobiographical in their presentation 
of the incidents of his life in Paris. The two books of 
travel that are published in this volume are filled with 
allusions and expressions and character sketches that are 
distinctly French in substance and in manner. 

Among other happy results of his life in France, one of 
the most significant was his meeting with the woman 
who was afterwards to be his wife. On his return from 
his canoe voyage in September, 1876, he was surprised to 
find that the colony of artists at Grez had been " invaded " 
by an American lady (Mrs. Osbourne), who, unhappy 
in her married life at home, had come abroad to educate 
her children. It was a case of love at first sight. When 
three years later she returned to San Francisco and fell 
ill, Stevenson decided, without consulting his parents and 
contrary to the advice of his friends, to go to her. Partly 
for economy and partly for the love of adventure, he went 
second cabin on an inferior boat, even sharing the life of 
the steerage passengers, and incidentally getting material 
for his Amateur Emigrant. Landing in New York, he 
took an emigrant train for the West. For three months 
he lived on a goat ranch at Monterey, frequently at 
death's door. He then went to San Francisco, where 
for several months he lived — to quote his own words — " in 
a circle of Hell unknown to Dante — that of the penniless 
and dying author." Perhaps at no other period of his life 
was he so near giving up in the brave struggle that he 
made for health and literary success. Cut off from his 



xvi Introduction 

home and friends, reduced almost to poverty, unable to 
attract the attention of editors and publishers, and for a 
time without hope that he could marry the woman he 
loved, he was in the direst extremity. 

Finally, however, on May 19, 1880, he was married 
to Mrs. Osbourne, who had secured a divorce from her 
former husband. That his marriage was the best move 
Stevenson ever made was his often expressed conviction — 
an opinion shared also by his parents and friends when 
they came to know his wife. Sidney Colvin speaks of her 
as " a character as strong, as interesting, and romantic 
almost as his own ; an inseparable sharer of all his thoughts 
and the staunch companion of all his adventures ; the most 
open-hearted of friends to all who loved him; the most 
shrewd and stimulating critic of his works; and in sick- 
ness, despite her own precarious health, the most devoted 
and efficient of nurses." 

They decided to go to an old mining camp, some fifty 
miles from San Francisco, " to fish, hunt, sketch, study 
Spanish, French, Latin, Euclid, and history." He wrote 
home to one of his friends: "I always feel as if I must 
write a work of genius sometime or other — and when is 
it more likely to come off than when I have just paid a 
visit to Styx and go thence to the eternal mountains?" 
All that came out of this incident, however, was the 
Silverado Squatters, published three years later. 

In August, at the earnest solicitation of his parents, 
Stevenson returned to Scotland with his wife and stepson, 
Lloyd Osbourne. They all lived together for several 
months in the Highlands, whose romantic history had long 
fascinated Stevenson but whose climate was not suited to 
him. While here and at Davos in Switzerland, he pub- 
lished his first volume of essays (Virginibus Puerisque) 
and his Child's Garden of Verses, and wrote the book of 



Introduction xvii 

genius that he had long dreamed of writing. Hitherto 
he had been known to a select audience as the author 
of books of travel and as an essayist; now he was to 
become one of the most popular novelists of his age. 

Treasure Island (1883) at once made Stevenson fa- 
mous, and gave him what he had so long wanted, a rea- 
sonably good income. Three years later he published 
Kidnapped, with its exciting adventures on sea and land. 
He not only found an outlet for that spirit of adventure 
which had always characterized him, but he struck the 
reading public at the psychological moment when it was 
tired of the realism that had dominated France and Eng- 
land for many years. Statesmen like Gladstone and promi- 
nent men of all professions, as well as the critics, vied 
with each other in tributes to the new romancer, who had 
taken up, after more than half a century, the work of his 
fellow-countryman, Scott. His long apprenticeship in the 
mastery of his art had not been in vain. In a very signifi- 
cant passage he tells us of his experience in writing Kid- 
napped: " I began it as a pot-boiler, but suddenly the char- 
acters became detached from the flat paper, turned their 
backs on me and walked off bodily ; and from that time my 
task was stenographic — it was they who spoke, it was they 
who wrote the remainder of the story." 

And yet, while he was writing these romances and the 
still more popular Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 
Hyde, he was suffering from continuous attacks of hemor- 
rhages. He described himself at that time as " a miser- 
able, snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden 
. . . shadow and remains of a man. ... I am too blind 
to read, hence no reading; I am too weak to walk, hence 
no walking; I am not allowed to speak, hence no talking." 
Unable to endure the climate of the Alps at Davos or that 
of the Highlands, he lived for sixteen months (1883-84) 



xviii Introduction 

at Hyeres, one of the most beautiful points on the Riviera. 
" Love, poetry, music, and the Arabian Nights inhabit 
just my corner of the universe, and I dwell already next 
door to heaven," he wrote; he enjoyed everything but 
good health. He did not fare better when he lived at 
Bournemouth in Southern England from 1884 to 1887. 
Furthermore, he was saddened by the growing ill-health of 
his father. Nowhere does Stevenson's character show to 
better advantage than in the letters written to his father 
at this time — full as they are of good cheer and affection. 

When his father's death in 1887 cut the last tie that 
bound him to Scotland and when it seemed that he had no 
hope of getting relief from his disease in Europe, he de- 
cided to take his mother and family to America. His 
fame had preceded him ; he found himself besieged by pub- 
lishers and editors. After staying for a while at Newport, 
he went to Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks to spend the 
winter. He made some interesting friends (notably Saint- 
Gaudens, the artist), wrote a series of his best essays for 
Scribners Magazine, and started the Master of Ballan- 
trae. His wife, who had gone on to San Francisco to 
visit old friends, was asked to inquire about a yacht 
with a view to a cruise in the Pacific. The desire to go to 
the South Seas had long been a dream of Stevenson's. So 
on June 28, 1888, he and his family sailed from San Fran- 
cisco on the yacht Casco, intending to make a cruise of 
several months. 

It is not necessary here to rehearse the details of his 
voyages, from the morning in July when he saw the first 
sunrise over the first South Sea island — " the silence of 
expectation, the customary thrill of landfall heightened by 
the strangeness of the shores that we were then approach- 
ing " — to the time when he resolved to make his home in 
Samoa. The most notable incident in this preliminary 



Introduction xix 

period was the six months spent at Honolulu, where he 
finished the Master of Ballantrae and visited the leper 
colony of Father Damien. He was perhaps happier in 
his cruises among the uncivilized islands, where he made 
many interesting friendships with native chiefs and heard 
native legends. He summed up his enjoyment in one sen- 
tence: "This climate; these voyages; these landfalls at 
dawn and islands peeking from the morning bank . . . 
the whole tale of my life is better than any poem." 

He now and then tried to get back to civilization, as at 
Sydney, but every time he had a relapse that almost cost 
him his life. He dreamed at times of going back on a visit 
to his native land, or of meeting his friends in Southern 
France, but he finally decided to make his permanent home 
in Samoa. So in 1890 he settled at Apia on a hillside six 
hundred feet above the sea and surrounded by a virgin 
forest. He himself worked at the clearing away of the 
forest, the building of the house, the making of the roads, 
the maintenance of garden and farm. His place was 
called Vailima, the Samoan word for " five rivers." He 
reproduced the ancient feudal life of his own land, modi- 
fied by native customs. He gathered about him a faithful 
band of servants, settled the disputes of his neighbors, 
interested himself in the political affairs of the island 
even to the point of danger to himself, as host received 
large numbers of guests of all nations, and entered sym- 
pathetically into the plans of missionaries. 

Thus he realized to some extent the long-cherished 
ideal of being a man of action. All the while, however, 
he was diligently writing his books. He was known by the 
natives as Tusitala, "Teller of Tales," and such he was 
to English and American readers. He kept in touch 
with literary men at home, encouraged his younger con- 
temporaries like Kipling and Barrie, wrote the letters that 



xx Introduction 

have become classics, and all the while he was planning 
and writing new volumes. He generally began work at 
six in the morning and wrote till noon, sometimes till four 
or five in the afternoon. Thus he wrote a series of papers 
on the South Seas, started the Family of Engineers, and 
completed the Vailima Letters, 3. series of journal-letters 
written to his friend, Sidney Colvin. He collaborated 
with his stepson in writing The Wrecker, The Wrong 
Box, and St. Ives. He wrote David Balfour, a sequel 
to Kidnapped, and started on Weir of Hermiston. 

The writing of this last romance is one of the most 
interesting incidents in recent literary history. For several 
months, if we may judge from his letters, he had for the 
first time in his life struck a somewhat discouraged note 
as to both himself and his work. He felt that he had come 
to " a dead stop." And yet when death came to him, he 
was in the midst of what most critics are agreed would 
have been his greatest work. His step-daughter, Mrs. 
Strong, who was his amanuensis at the time, says that he 
seemed to be dictating as from an unseen book. His love 
of Scotland, for which he often sighed in his exile, his 
vivid realization of the historical background, and a sud- 
den flood of inspiration, all combined to make of the work 
a tremendous success. And one day, December 3, 1894, 
when he was in the full glow of composition, he died sud- 
denly, thus meeting the death that he had years ago pic- 
tured as the ideal: 

" In the hot-fit of life, a-tiptoe on the highest point of 
being, he passes at a bound on to the other side. The 
noise of the mallet and chisel is scarcely quenched, the 
trumpets are hardly done blowing when, trailing with him 
clouds of glory, this happy-starred, full-blooded spirit 
ghoots into the spiritual land." 



Introduction 



II 



AN INLAND VOYAGE AND TRAVELS WITH 
A DONKEY 

Stevenson once wrote to his mother: "You must 
understand that I shall be a nomad, more or less, until my 
days are done. . . . You don't know how much I used 
to long for it in old days; how I used to go and look at 
the trains leaving, and wish to go with them. ... I 
must be a bit of a vagabond; it's your own fault, after all, 
isn't it? You shouldn't have had a tramp for a son." In 
another letter he referred to his gypsy nature; his sym- 
pathy for tramps and gypsies is evident in the Inland 
Voyage. 

It is already apparent from the foregoing sketch of his 
life that he was a traveler from his youth. As he became 
older and freer in his movements, he went on long walk- 
ing expeditions, and later on a yachting expedition with his 
friend, Sir Walter Simpson, along the western coast of 
Scotland. In the summer of 1875 he and Simpson had 
a long walking trip in the valley of the Loing and many 
shorter ones in and around Fontainebleau. The follow- 
ing year, September, 1876, they took the canoe voyage from 
Antwerp to Pontoise, the record of which we have in the 
Inland Voyage. In one of his letters he thus summarized 
the general impressions of the trip, a bit more realistic 
than the somewhat idealized sketch: "I have fought it 
through under the worst weather I ever saw in France; 
I have been wet through nearly every day of travel since 
the second; besides this I have had to fight it through 
against pretty mouldy health; so that, on the whole, the 
essayist and reviewer has shown, I think, some pluck." 



xxii Introduction 

The two friends intended to pursue their journey on to 
the Rhone; then they decided to wait till next year. In 
the meantime they were to equip a barge, as suggested in 
the preface to the Inland Voyage. Their plans came to 
naught, however. Instead Stevenson himself, in Sep- 
tember, 1878, took a donkey trip through the Cevennes, 
a mountain range in Southern France. He thus realized 
one of his favorite ideas that a walking tour should be 
taken alone; because freedom is the essence of it. 

During these years, when he was enjoying good health 
to the utmost, he was beginning to write and to publish. 
His first essays and books related largely to his travels. 
In 1876 — the year of the canoe voyage — he wrote three 
essays of travel ; but his first three published books were 
the two volumes here collected and one entitled Pic- 
turesque Notes of Edinburgh. He, who had from his 
earliest years carried note-books with him to jot down 
impressions of what he saw and read, now, under the 
inspiration of his travels and the impetus to lead a literary 
life, found the records of his travel adapted to artistic 
treatment. The Inland Voyage was written at once to 
make money — he received twenty pounds for it — and with 
a desire to get a definite piece of work accomplished. He 
said: "I want coin badly, and besides it would be some- 
thing done — something put outside of me, and off my con- 
science ; and I should not feel such a muff as I do, if once 
I saw the thing in bonds with a ticket on its back. I 
think I shall frequent circulating libraries a good deal." 

He was writing at the Inland Voyage nearly two years, 
— he wrote the preface four times, — while he finished the 
Travels with a Donkey in a few months. The impression 
made by the two books is indicated in a remark of Henry 
James: "I seemed to see the author, unknown as yet to 
fame, jump before my eyes into a style. His steps in 



Introduction xxiii 

literature had presumably not been many, yet he had mas- 
tered his form and a singular air of literary experience." 
At the same time he was publishing essays, literary and 
personal, in the magazines; he had begun, too, his experi- 
ments'with the short story, and he had even attempted the 
writing of plays in collaboration with his friend, W. E. 
Henley, but these books of travel were his most popular 
work before the appearance of Treasure Island. 

Certainly An Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey 
will always have a high rank among the unconventional 
books of travel. There is nothing of the guide-book in 
them : the places described are off the beaten track of 
travelers in Europe. Only a few of the more zealous 
devotees have ever followed in the footsteps of Stevenson. 
There are no descriptions of famous places or buildings 
or rivers or mountains — the nearest approach is in the de- 
scription of Noyon Cathedral. There is only a sugges- 
tion here and there of some historical associations — such 
as the Franco-Prussian War or the persecution of the 
Protestants in the Camisard region. 

The books, however, have some value as a revelation 
of French lile and customs. Attention has already been 
called to the fact that Stevenson was from 1875 to 1879 
a constant visitor to Paris and Fontainebleau. Before 
and after this time he lived on the Riviera for his health. 
He once estimated that he had visited forty-eight towns 
in England, fifty in Scotland, and seventy-four in France, 
thirty-one of these last more than once. It was perhaps 
in his journeys along the rivers and canals and through 
the remote mountains that he best saw the French people 
in their elemental life. The two volumes are full of 
penetrating passages that reveal French traits, characters, 
and points of view as contrasted with English. The 
country inns, the picturesque types, the idyllic scenes, — all 



xxiv Introduction 

these indicate Stevenson's knowledge of French rural life, 
as his essays and letters suggest the charm of Paris or 
the beauty of Southern France. In his earlier days he 
visited Italy, once or twice he traveled in Germany, 
but we have very few of his comments on those countries. 
France he loved as second only to his native land. 

And yet the value of these books of travel does not lie in 
the style or in the information ; it lies rather in their like- 
ness to his best personal essays. . No one of his other 
books of travel has the same charm. The letters on the 
South Seas are more informing, and some of the chapters 
in The Amateur Emigrant and Silverado Squatters are 
more romantic. But Stevenson never quite recaptured the 
felicity of literary allusion, the delicacy of the character- 
sketches, and the mellowness of his reflections on life, to 
be found in these books of his youth. There is ax blend- 
ing of humor and sentiment, of personal whim and gentle 
moralizing, that characterizes Lamb and Thackeray. 

There are some almost lyrical bits of description of 
nature, as for instance the dawn at the end of his night 
among the pines. But to him landscape on a walking 
tour w T as quite accessory. " He who is indeed of the 
brotherhood," he says, " does not voyage in quest of the 
picturesque but of certain jolly humors — of the hope and 
spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the 
peace and spiritual reflections of the evening's rest." 
This presentation of the "jolly humors" of the traveler 
is one of the most pleasing characteristics of the volumes. 
Again, there are some well-drawn character-sketches of 
people seen along the way — the fishermen and the chil- 
dren along the river bank, the traveling merchant and his 
family, the inn-keepers, especially the Bazins, the monks 
and their guests at Our Lady of the Snows. 

After all, however, the character best revealed is Steven- 



Introduction xxv 

son himself. We have his personal appearance, the charm 
of his conversation, the books that he relished as shown 
in his allusions, and, above all, his views of life. A series 
of passages 1 — little essays — might be collected from the 
two volumes that would suggest his ideas of the relative 
importance of one's business and leisure, of charity and 
tolerance, of the good and evil aspects of nature as sym- 
bolized in the legend of Pan and his pipes, of the glory of 
cathedrals and forests, of the pleasure of getting away from 
the feather bed of civilization, of the place of love in 
human life, and of religion itself. Most of all the author 
reveals his optimism. There is, as he suggests, not a 
single reference to the imbecility of God's universe. He 
would have men sing the Laudate Deo and not the 
Miserere. He would put us in a good heart about life. 
To an age jaded with the realistic novel, Stevenson gave 
romances that awoke his readers to the glory of action 
and adventure. To an age sick with introspection and 
despair, he went to " the head of the march to sound the 
heady drums." 

There are, to be sure, defects in the two books. Steven- 
son himself felt the limitations of the Inland Voyage, when 
he w T rote: "If they liked that so much I ought to have 
given them something better, that's all. Now I shall try 
to do so." And again: "It is not badly written, thin, 
mildly cheery, and strained." Many years later, when he 
had written some of" his great romances, he rebuked a 
friendly critic for judging him by these "two affected 
little books of travel." 

The fact is that there were two or three distinct ele- 
ments in Stevenson. He was a critic, as one may see by 
reading his Familiar Studies of Men and Books. He was 
one of the masters of the personal essay ; witness his Mem- 
ories and Portraits and Virginibus Puerisque. He was a 



xxvi Introduction 

great romancer, the successor of Scott; witness his Kid- 
napped and Master of Ballantrae. Some prefer the Dumas 
or Scott in Stevenson and will have naught to do with the 
sentimentalist or the preacher in him; others are attracted 
to him most by his humorous and wise reflections on life. 
The wiser course is to take him in all his variety and find 
therein one of his most distinctive charms. 



DESCRIPTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY 

An authoritative sketch of Stevenson's life by Sidney 
Colvin may be found in the Dictionary of National Bi- 
ography. The same writer has edited with appropriate 
comment and notes the Vailima Letters, written by 
Stevenson in the last years 'of his life, and a larger body 
of correspondence covering his whole career. These let- 
ters best tell the story of the author's life, and at the same 
time are interesting in themselves as among the best letters 
of modern times. The standard biography (2 vols., New 
York, 1901) is by Graham Balfour, who had access to all 
the records of the family, besides a close personal acquaint- 
ance that extended over many years. Stevensoniana by J. 
A. Hammerton (Edinburgh, 1907) is a collection of inter- 
esting articles, reminiscent in character. The same writer 
published in 1908 In the Track of R. L. Stevenson 
(Dutton, New York) — the account of a journey taken 
by the author over the same routes as those described in 
An Inland Voyage and Travels ivith a Donkey. 

After all, the best impressions of the author's personality 
and the principal incidents and influences of his life may 
be gained by reading his essays, especially M.emories and 
Portraits, Essays of Travel, and Across the Plains. No 
author has written with greater charm about his own life, 
his friends, and his books. 

The definitive editions of Stevenson's writings are the 
Thistle Edition and the Biographical Edition (edited by 
Mrs. Stevenson) — both published by Charles Scribner's 



xxviii Descriptive Bibliography 

Sons, New York. The same firm also brought out in 191 1, 
under the editorship of Sidney Colvin, a new edition of 
Stevenson's correspondence, containing more than a hun- 
dred letters never before published. 

The following list comprises Stevenson's most impor- 
tant books, along with the dates of their first issue. A 
brief description follows the title of each book in most 
cases where none appears in the Introduction: 

1878. An Inland Voyage. 

1879. Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh. 

The best short description and interpretation of the city 
that exercised a great influence over the author. 
1879. Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes. 

1881. Virginibus Puerisgue. 

A collection of essays which he had been writing for 
several years for various magazines. A little volume 
of special pleadings which he himself called "Life at 
Twenty-five." The best of the essays are " An Apology 
for Idlers, " Ordered South," " JEs Triplex," and 
"Child's Play." 

1882. Familiar Studies of Men and Books. 

A volume of his critical essays on English, American, 
and French writers, notably Victor Hugo, Burns, 
Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Samuel Pepys, and Villon. 
1882. Treasure Island. 

1882. New Arabian Nights. 

A volume of short stories containing among others the 
French stories mentioned in the Introduction. 

1883. The Silverado Squatters. 
1885. Prince Otto. 

The adventures of the prince of an imaginary German 
principality. 

1885. A Child's Garden of Verses. 

A very imaginative interpretation of his own child- 
hood, with reminiscences of the sick-room in Edinburgh 
and of the garden at Colinton Manse. The dedication 
of the volume to his old nurse is one of his best poems. 

1885. More New Arabian Nights. (With Mrs. Stevenson.) 
A volume of short stories. 



Descriptive Bibliography xxix 

1886. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 

Conceived first as " a bogey tale," then burnt, and 
written again as an allegory on the dual nature of 
man, this story won instant notoriety and has retained 
its hold on the popular imagination. 

1886. Kidnapped. 

A romantic novel setting forth the adventures on land 
and sea of the young boy, David Bglfour, and of his 
friend Alan Breck, a disguised Highland chief. The 
account of the fight in the roundhouse is one of the 
best chapters in modern fiction. 

1886. The Merry Men, and Other Tales. 

A volume containing among other short stories " Will 
o' the Mill," considered by many his best story. 

1887. Underwoods. 

1887. Memories and Portraits. 

1887. Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin. 

1888. The Black Arrow. 

A novel with a fifteenth-century background, based on 
the reading of the Paston Letters. 

1888. The Wrong Box. (With Lloyd Osbourne.) 

1889. The Master of Ballantrae. 

" A story of many years and countries, of the sea and 
the land, savagery and civilization," is Stevenson's 
own characterization of the novel. 

1890. Ballads. 

1890. Father Damien: An Open Letter. 

A pamphlet full of righteous indignation against a 
Protestant minister, Dr. Hyde, who had attacked the 
founder of the leper colony near Honolulu. 

1892. Across the Plains, with Other Memories and Essays. 

The second part of the volume is a continuation of 
Memories and Portraits, with the excellent essays, 
" Fontainebleau," " The Lantern-Bearers," and " Pulvis 
et Umbra." 

1892. The Wrecker. (With Lloyd Osbourn°.) 

1893. Island Nights 1 Entertainments. 

Three stories which have the South Seas for a back- 
ground ; the best of them is The Beach of Falesd. 
1893. David Balfour (in England called Catriona). 

In addition to its interest as a sequel to Kidnapped, 



xxx Descriptive Bibliography 

the novel is significant as containing Stevenson's only- 
successful women characters, Catriona and Miss Grant. 

1894. The Ebb-Tide. (With Lloyd Osbourne.) 

1895. Later Essays. 
1895. Vailima Letters. 

Weir of Hermiston. 

In the South Seas. 

Songs of Travel. 

St. Ives. (Completed by A. T. Quiller-Couch.) 

The adventures of a French prisoner in England. 

Stevenson wrote only the first thirty chapters. 
Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to His Family and 

Friends. 



AN INLAND VOYAGE 




Sir Walter Grindlay Simpson 

From the Bookman, August, 1898. By permission of 

Dodd, Mead & Company 



PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION 

To equip so small a book with a preface is, I am half 
afraid, to sin against proportion. But a preface is more 
than an author can resist, for it is the reward of his labors. 
When the foundation stone is laid, the architect appears 
with his plans, and struts for an hour before the public 5 
eye. So with the writer in his preface : he may have never 
a word to say, but he must show himself a moment in the 
portico, hat in hand, and with an urbane demeanor. 

It is best, in such circumstances, to represent a delicate 
shade of manner between humility and superiority: as if 10 
the book had been written by some one else, and you had 
merely run over it and inserted what was good. But for 
my part I have not yet learned the trick to that perfection ; 
I am not yet able to dissemble the warmth of my senti- 
ments towards a reader; and if I meet him on the 15 
threshold, it is to invite him in with country cordiality. 

To say truth, I had no sooner finished reading this little 
book in proof, than I was seized upon by a distressing 
apprehension. It occurred to me that I might not only be 
the first to read these pages, but the last as well; that I 20 
might have pioneered this very smiling tract of country all 
in vain, and find not a soul to follow in my steps. The 
more I thought, the more I disliked the notion; until the 
distaste grew into a sort of panic terror, and I rushed into 
this Preface, which is no more than an advertisement for 25 
readers. 

What am I to say for my book? Caleb and Joshua 
brought back from Palestine a formidable bunch of grapes; 
3 



4 Preface to First Edition 

alas! my book produces naught so nourishing; and for the 
matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer a 
definition to any quantity of fruit. 

I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? for, 

5 from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this 
volume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to consider- 
ably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains not a 
single reference to the imbecility of God's universe, nor so 
much as a single hint that I could have made a better one 

10 myself. — I really do not know where my head can have 
been. I seem to have forgotten all that makes it glorious 
to be man. — 'Tis an omission that renders the book 
philosophically unimportant; but I am in hopes the eccen- 
tricity may please in frivolous circles. 

15 To the friend who accompanied me, I owe many thanks 
already, indeed I wish I owed him nothing else ; but at this 
moment I feel towards him an almost exaggerated tender- 
ness. He, at least, will become my reader: — if it were 
only to follow his own travels alongside of mine. 

R. L. S. 



TO 
SIR WALTER GRINDLAY SIMPSON, BART. 

My dear Cigarette, 

It was enough that you should have shared so liberally 
in the rains and portages of our voyage; that you should 
have had so hard a battle to recover the derelict Arethusa 
on the flooded Oise; and that you should thenceforth 5 
have piloted a mere wreck of mankind to Origny Sainte- 
Benoite and a supper so eagerly desired. It was perhaps 
more than enough, as you once somewhat piteously com- 
plained, that I should have set down all the strong lan- 
guage to you, and kept the appropriate reflections for my- 10 
self. I could not in decency expose you to share the 
disgrace of another and more public shipwreck. But now 
that this voyage of ours is going into a cheap edition, that 
peril, we shall hope, is at an end, and I may put your name 
on the burgee. 15 

But I cannot pause till I have lamented the fate of our 
two ships. That, sir, was not a fortunate day when we 
projected the possession of a canal barge; it was not a 
fortunate day when we shared our day-dream with the 
most hopeful of day-dreamers. For a while, indeed, the 20 
world looked smilingly. The barge was procured and 
christened, and as the Eleven Thousand Virgins of 
Cologne, lay for some months, the admired of all admirers, 
in a pleasant river and under the walls of an ancient town. 
M. Mattras, the accomplished carpenter of Moret, had 25 
made her a center of emulous labor; and you will not 



6 To Sir Walter Grindlay Simpson, Bart. 

have forgotten the amount of sweet champagne consumed 
in the inn at the bridge end, to give zeal to the workmen 
and speed to the work. On the financial aspect, I would 
not willingly dwell. The Eleven Thousand Virgins of 
5 Cologne rotted in the stream where she was beatified. 
She felt not the impulse of the breeze; she was never 
harnessed to the patient track-horse. And when at length 
she was sold, by the indignant carpenter of Moret, there 
were sold along with her the Arethusa and the Cigarette, 
10 she of cedar, she, as we knew so keenly on a portage, of 
solid-hearted English oak. Now these historic vessels fly 
the tricolor and are known by new and alien names. 

R. L. S. 




The Willebroek Canal 



AN INLAND VOYAGE 



ANTWERP TO BOOM 



We made a great stir in the Antwerp Docks. A steve- 
dore and a lot of dock porters took up the two canoes, and 
ran with them for the slip. A crowd of children followed 
cheering. The Cigarette went off in a splash and a bubble 
of small breaking water, Next moment the Arethusa w T as 5 
after her. A steamer was coming down, men on the 
paddle-box shouted hoarse warnings, the stevedore and his 
porters were bawling from the quay. But in a stroke or 
two the canoes were away out in the middle of the Scheldt, 
and all steamers, and stevedores, and other long-shore 10 
vanities were left behind. 

The sun shone brightly ; the tide was making — four 
jolly miles an hour; the wind blew steadily, with occasional 
squalls. For my part, I had never been in a canoe under 
sail in my life; and my first experiment out in the middle 15 
of this big river w T as not made without some trepidation. 
What would happen when the wind first caught my little 



8 An Inland Voyage 

canvas? I suppose it was almost as trying a venture 
into the regions of the unknown as to publish a first book, 
or to marry. But my doubts were not of long duration ; 
and in five minutes you will not be surprised to learn that 
5 I had tied my sheet. 

I own I was a little struck by this circumstance myself ; 
of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-men, I 
had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat; but in so little 
and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these charging 

10 squalls, I was not prepared to find myself follow the same 
principle; and it inspired me with some contemptuous 
views of our regard for life. It is certainly easier to smoke 
with the sheet fastened; but I had never before weighed 
a comfortable pipe of tobacco against an obvious risk, and 

15 gravely elected for the comfortable pipe. It is a common- 
place, that we cannot answer for ourselves before we have 
been tried. But it is not so common a reflection, and 
surely more consoling, that we usually find ourselves a 
great deal braver and better than we thought. I believe 

20 this is every one's experience : but an apprehension that 
they may belie themselves in the future prevents mankind 
from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish 
sincerely, for it would have saved me much trouble, there 
had been some one to put me in a good heart about life 

25 when I was younger ; to tell me how dangers are most 
portentous on a distant sight ; and how the good in a man's 
spirit will not suffer itself to be overlaid, and rarely or 
never deserts him in the hour of need. But we are all for 
tootling on the sentimental flute in literature; and not a 

30 man among us will go to the head of the march to sound 
the heady drums. 

It was agreeable upon the river. A barge or two went 
past laden with hay. Reeds and willows bordered the 
stream ; and cattle and gray venerable horses came and 



Antwerp to Boom 9 

hung their mild heads over the embankment. Here and 
there was a pleasant village among trees, with a noisy 
shipping yard; here and there a villa in a lawn. The 
wind served us well up the Scheldt and thereafter up the 
Rupel; and we were running pretty free when we began 5 
to sight the brickyards of Boom, lying for a long way on 
the right bank of the river. The left bank was still green 
and pastoral, with alleys of trees along the embankment, 
and here and there a flight of steps to serve a ferry, where 
perhaps there sat a woman with her elbows on her knees, 10 
or an old gentleman with a staff and silver spectacles. 
But Boom and its brickyards grew smokier and shabbiei 
with every minute; until a great church with a clock, and 
a wooden bridge over the river, indicated the central 
quarters of the town. 15 

Boom is not a nice place, and is only remarkable for one 
thing: that the majority of the inhabitants have a private 
opinion that they can speak English, which is not justified 
by fact. This gave a kind of haziness to our intercourse. 
As for the Hotel de la Navigation, I think it is the worst 20 
feature of the place. It boasts of a sanded parlor, with a 
bar at one end, looking on the street; and another sanded 
parlor, darker and colder, with an empty birdcage and 
a tricolor subscription box by way of sole adornment, 
where we made shift to dine in the company of three un- 25 
communicative engineer apprentices and a silent bagman. 
The food, as usual in Belgium, was of a nondescript occa- 
sional character; indeed I have never been able to detect 
anything in the nature of a meal among this pleasing peo- 
ple; they seem to peck and trifle with viands all day long 30 
in an amateur spirit: tentatively French, truly German, 
and somehow falling between the two. 

The empty birdcage, swept and garnished, and with no 
trace of the old piping favorite, save where two wires had 



io An Inland Voyage 

been pushed apart to hold its lump of sugar, carried with it 
a sort of graveyard cheer. The engineer apprentices would 
have nothing to say to us, nor indeed to the bagman; 
but talked low and sparingly to one another, or raked us in 
5 the gaslight with a gleam of spectacles. For though hand- 
some lads, they were all (in the Scotch phrase) barnacled. 
There was an English maid in the hotel, who had been 
long enough out of England to pick up all sorts of funny 
foreign idioms, and all sorts of curious foreign ways, which 

io need not here be specified. She spoke to us very fluently 
in her jargon, asked us information as to the manners of 
the present day in England, and obligingly corrected us 
when we attempted to answer. But as we were dealing 
with a woman, perhaps our information was not so much 

15 thrown away as it appeared. The sex likes to pick up 
knowledge and yet preserve its superiority. It is good 
policy, and almost necessary in the circumstances. If a 
man finds a woman admires him, were it only for his ac- 
quaintance with geography, he will begin at once to build 

20 upon the admiration. It is only by unintermittent snubbing 
that the pretty ones can keep us in our place. Men, as 
Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe would have said, " are such 
encroachers" For my part, I am body and soul with the 
women; and after a well-married couple, there is nothing 

25 so beautiful in the world as the myth of the divine huntress. 
It is no use for a man to take to the woods; we know him; 
Anthony tried the same thing long ago, and had a pitiful 
time of it by all accounts. But there is this about some 
women, which overtops the best gymnosophist among men, 

30 that they suffice to themselves, and can walk in a high and 
cold zone without the countenance of any trousered being. 
I declare, although the reverse of a professed ascetic, I am 
more obliged to women for this ideal than I should be 
to the majority of them, or indeed to any but one, for a 



Antwerp to Boom 1 1 

spontaneous kiss. There is nothing so encouraging as the 
spectacle of self-sufficiency. And when I think of the slim 
and lovely maidens, running the woods all night to the 
note of Diana's horn ; moving among the old oaks, as 
fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the starlight, 5 
not touched by the commotion of man's hot and turbid 
life — although there are plenty other ideals that I should 
prefer — I find my heart beat at the thought of this one. 
'Tis to fail in life, but to fail w T ith what a grace ! That is 
not lost which is not regretted. And where — here slips 10 
out the male — where would be much of the glory of inspir- 
ing love, if there were no contempt to overcome? 



ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL 

Next morning, when we set forth on the Willebroek 
Canal, the rain began heavy and chill. The water of the 
canal stood at about the drinking temperature of tea; and 
under this cold aspersion the surface was covered with 
5 steam. The exhilaration of departure, and the easy motion 
of the boats under each stroke of the paddles, supported 
us through this misfortune while it lasted; and when 
the cloud passed and the sun came out again, our spirits 
went up above the range of stay-at-home humors. A good 

10 breeze rustled and shivered in the rows of trees that 
bordered the canal. The leaves flickered in and out of the 
light in tumultuous masses. It seemed sailing weather to 
eye and ear; but down between the banks, the wind 
reached us only in faint and desultory puffs. There was 

15 hardly enough to steer by. Progress was intermittent and 
unsatisfactory. A jocular person, of marine antecedents, 
hailed us from the tow-path with a " C'est vite, mais cest 
long" 

The canal was busy enough. Every now and then we 

20 met or overtook a long string of boats, with great green 
tillers; high sterns with a window on either side of the 
rudder, and perhaps a jug or a flower-pot in one of the 
windows; a dingy following behind ; a woman busied about 
the day's dinner, and a handful of children. These barges 

25 were all tied one behind the other with tow ropes, to the 
number of twenty-five or thirty; and the line was headed 
and kept in motion by a steamer of strange construction. 
It had neither paddle-wheel nor screw; but by some gear 



On the Willebroek Canal 13 

not rightly comprehensible to the unmechanical mind, it 
fetched up over its bow a small bright chain which lay 
along the bottom of the canal, and paying it out again over 
the stern, dragged itself forward, link by link, with its 
whole retinue of loaded scows. Until one had found out 5 
the key to the enigma, there was something solemn and un- 
comfortable in the progress of one of these trains, as it 
moved gently along the water with nothing to mark its 
advance but an eddy alongside dying away into the wake. 

Of all the creatures of commercial enterprise, a canal 10 
barge is by far the most delightful to consider. It may 
spread its sails, and then you see it sailing high above the 
tree-tops and the wind-mill, sailing on the aqueduct, sail- 
ing through the green cornlands: the most picturesque of 
things amphibious. Or the horse plods along at a foot- 15 
pace as if there were no such thing as business in the world ; 
and the man dreaming at the tiller sees the same spire 
on the horizon all day long. It is a mystery how things 
ever get to their destination at this rate; and "to see the 
barges waiting their turn at a lock, affords a fine lesson of 20 
how easily the world may be taken. There should be many 
contented spirits on board, for such a life is both to travel 
and to stay at home. 

The chimney smokes for dinner as you go along; the 
banks of the canal slowly unroll their scenery to con- 25 
templative eyes; the barge floats by great forests and 
through great cities with their public buildings and their 
lamps at night; and for the bargee, in his floating home, 
" traveling abed," it is merely as if he were listening to an- 
other man's story or turning the leaves of a picture book in 30 
which he had no concern. He may take his afternoon 
walk in some foreign country on the banks of the canal, 
and then come home to dinner at his own fireside. 

There is not enough exercise in such a life for any high 



14 An Inland Voyage 

measure of health; but a high measure of health is only 
necessary for unhealthy people. The slug of a fellow, 
who is never ill nor well, has a quiet time of it in life, and 
dies all the easier. 
5 I am sure I would rather be a bargee than occupy any 
position under Heaven that required attendance at an 
office. There are few callings, I should say, where a man 
gives up less of his liberty in return for regular meals. The 
bargee is on shipboard — he is master in his own ship — 

10 he can land whenever he will — he can never be kept beat- 
ing off a lee-shore a whole frosty night when the sheets 
are as hard as iron ; and so far as I can make out, time 
stands as nearly still with him as is compatible w T ith the 
return of bed-time or the dinner-hour. It is not easy to 

15 see why a bargee should ever die. 

Half-way between Willebroek and Villevorde, in a beau- 
tiful reach of canal like a squire's avenue, we went ashore 
to lunch. There were two eggs, a junk of bread, and a 
bottle of wine on board the Arethusa; and two eggs and 

20 an Etna cooking apparatus on board the Cigarette. The 
master of the latter boat smashed one of the eggs in the 
course of disembarkation ; but observing pleasantly that 
it might still be cooked a la papier, he dropped it into the 
Etna, in its covering of Flemish newspaper. We landed 

25 in a blink of fine weather; but we had not been two 
minutes ashore, before the wind freshened into half a gale, 
and the rain began to patter on our shoulders. We sat as 
close about the Etna as we could. The spirits burned with 
great ostentation ; the grass caught flame every minute or 

30 two, and had to be trodden out ; and before long, there 
were several burnt fingers of the party. But the solid 
quantity of cookery accomplished, was out of proportion 
with so much display; and wdien we desisted, after two 
applications of the fire, the sound egg was little more than 



On the Willebroek Canal 15 

loo-warm ; and as for a la papier, it was a cold and sordid 
fricassee of printer's ink and broken egg-shell. We made 
shift to roast the other two, by putting them close to the 
burning spirits; and that with better success. And then 
we uncorked the bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch 5 
with our canoe aprons over our knees. It rained smartly. 
Discomfort, when it is honestly uncomfortable and makes 
no nauseous pretensions to the contrary, is a vastly humor- 
ous business; and people well steeped and stupefied in the 
open air are in a good vein for laughter. From this point 10 
of view, even egg a la papier offered by way of food, may 
pass muster as a sort of accessory to the fun. But this 
manner of jest, although it may be taken in good part, 
does not invite repetition: and from that time forward, 
the Etna voyaged like a gentleman in the locker of the 15 
Cigarette. 

It is almost unnecessary to mention that when lunch 
w T as over and we got aboard again and made sail, the wind 
promptly died away. The rest of the journey to Ville- 
vorde, we still spread our canvas to the unfavoring air; 20 
and with now and then a puff, and now and then a spell 
of paddling, drifted along from lock to lock, between the 
orderly trees. 

It was a fine, green, fat landscape ; or rather a mere 
green water-lane, going on from village to village. Things 25 
had a settled look, as in places long lived in. Crop-headed 
children spat upon us from the bridges as we went below, 
with a true conservative feeling. But even more con- 
servative were the fishermen, intent upon their floats, who 
let us go by without one glance. They perched upon ster- 30 
lings and buttresses and along the slope of the embank- 
ment, gently occupied. They were indifferent like pieces of 
dead nature. They did not move any more than if they 
had been fishing in an old Dutch print. The leaves flut- 



i6 



An Inland Voyage 



tered, the water lapped, but they continued in one stay 
like so many churches established by law. You might have 
trepanned every one of their innocent heads, and found 
no more than so much coiled fishing line below their 
5 skulls. I do not care for your stalwart fellows in india- 
rubber stockings breasting up mountain torrents with a 
salmon rod; but I do dearly love the class of man who 
plies his unfruitful art, for ever and a day, by still and 
depopulated waters. 

10 At the last lock just beyond Villevorde, there was a lock 
mistress who spoke French comprehensibly, and told us we 
were still a couple of leagues from Brussels. At the same 
place, the rain began again. It fell in straight, parallel 
lines; and the surface of the canal was thrown up into an 

15 infinity of little crystal fountains. There were no beds to 
be had in the neighborhood. Nothing for it but to lay 
the sails aside and address ourselves to steady paddling in 
the rain. 

Beautiful country houses, with clocks and long lines of 

20 shuttered windows, and fine old trees standing in groves 
and avenues, gave a rich and somber aspect in the rain and 
the deepening dusk to the shores of the canal. I seem to 
have seen something of the same effect in engravings: 
opulent landscapes, deserted and overhung with the passage 

25 of storm. And throughout we had the escort of a hooded 
cart, which trotted shabbily along the tow-path, and kept 
at an almost uniform distance in our wake. 



THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE 

The rain took off near Laeken. But the sun was already 
down; the air was chill; and we had scarcely a dry stitch 
between the pair of us. Nay, now we found ourselves 
near the end of the Allee Verte, and on the very threshold 
of Brussels we were confronted by a serious difficulty. 5 
The shores were closely lined by canal boats waiting their 
turn at the lock. Nowhere was there any convenient land- 
ing-place; nowhere so much as a stable-yard to leave the 
canoes in for the night. We scrambled ashore and entered 
an estaminet where* some sorry fellows were drinking 10 
with the landlord. The landlord was pretty round with 
us; he knew of no coach-house or stable-yard, nothing of 
the sort ; and seeing we had come with no mind to drink, 
he did not conceal his impatience to be rid of us. One of 
the sorry fellows came to the rescue. Somewhere in the 15 
corner of the basin there was a slip, he informed us, and 
something else besides, not very clearly defined by him, 
but hopefully construed by his hearers. 

Sure enough there was the slip in the corner of the basin ; 
and at the top of it two nice-looking lads in boating 20 
clothes. The Arethusa addressed himself to these. One of 
them said there would be no difficulty about a night's 
lodging for our boats; and the other, taking a cigarette 
from his lips, inquired if they were made by Searle & Son. 
The name was quite an introduction. Half-a-dozen other 25 
young men came out of a boat-house bearing the super- 
scription " Royal Sport Nautique," and joined in the talk. 
They were all very polite, voluble, and enthusiastic; 



1 8 An Inland Voyage 

and their discourse was interlarded with English boating 
terms, and the names of English boat-builders and English 
clubs. I do not know, to my shame, any spot in my native 
land where I should have been so warmly received by the 
5 same number of people. We were English boating-men, 
and the Belgian boating-men fell upon our necks. I won- 
der if French Huguenots were as cordially greeted by 
English Protestants when, they came across the Channel 
out of great tribulation. But after all, what religion knits 
10 people so closely as a common sport ? 

The canoes were carried into the boat-house ; they were 
w r ashed down for us by the Club servants, the sails were 
hung out to dry, and everything made as snug and tidy as 
a picture. And in the meanwhile we were led upstairs by 
15 our new-found brethren, for so more than one of them 
stated the relationship, and made free of their lavatory. 
This one lent us soap, that one a towel, a third and fourth 
helped us to undo our bags. And all the time such ques- 
tions, such assurances of respect and sympathy! I declare 
20 I never knew what glory was before. 

" Yes, yes, the Royal Sport Nautique is the oldest club 
in Belgium." 

" We number two hundred." 

" We " — this is not a substantive speech, but an ab- 
25 stract of many speeches, the impression left upon my mind 
after a great deal of talk; and very youthful, pleasant, 
natural and patriotic it seems to me to be — " We have 
gained all races, except those where we were cheated by 
the French." 
30 " You must leave all your wet things to be dried." 

"O! entre freres! In any boat-house in England we 
should find the same." (I cordially hope they might.) 

"En Angleterre, vous employ ez des sliding-seats nest-ce 
pas?" 



The Royal Sport Nautique 19 

"We are all employed in commerce during the day; but 
in the evening, voyez vous, nous sommes serieux." 

These were the words. They were all employed over 
the frivolous mercantile concerns of Belgium during the 
day; but in the evening they found some hours for the 5 
serious concerns of life. I may have a wrong idea of wis- 
dom, but I think that was a very wise remark. People 
connected with literature and philosophy are busy all their 
days in getting rid of second-hand notions and false stand- 
ards. It is their profession, in the sweat of their brows, 10 
by dogged thinking, to recover their old fresh view of life, 
and distinguish what they really and originally like, from 
what they have only learned to tolerate perforce. And 
these Royal Nautical Sportsmen had the distinction still 
quite legible in their hearts. They had still those clean 15 
perceptions of what is nice and nasty, what is interesting 
and what is dull, which envious old gentlemen refer to as 
illusions. The nightmare illusion of middle age, the bear's 
hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out of a man's 
soul, had not yet begun for these happy-star'd young Bel- 20 
gians. They still knew that the interest they took in 
their business was a trifling affair compared to their spon- 
taneous, long-suffering affection for nautical sports. To 
know what you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to 
what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have 25 
kept your soul alive. Such a man may be generous ; he 
may be honest in something more than the commercial 
sense; he may love his friends with an elective, personal 
sympathy, and not accept them as an adjunct of the sta- 
tion to which he has been called. He may be a man, in 30 
short, acting on his own instincts, keeping in his own 
shape that God made him in ; and not a mere crank in 
the social engine house, welded on principles that he does 
not understand, and for purposes that he does not care for. 



20 An Inland Voyage 

For will any one dare to tell me that business is more 
entertaining than fooling among boats? He must have 
never seen a boat, or never seen an office, who says so. 
And for certain the one is a great deal better for the health. 
5 There should be nothing so much a man's business as his 
amusements. Nothing but money-grubbing can be put 
forward to the contrary; no one but 

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell 
From Heaven, 

10 durst risk a word in answer. It is but a lying cant that 
would represent the merchant and the banker as people 
disinterestedly toiling for mankind, and then most useful 
when they are most absorbed in their transactions; for 
the man is more important than his services. And when 

15 my Royal Nautical Sportsman shall have so far fallen from 
his hopeful youth that he cannot pluck up an enthusiasm 
over anything but his ledger, I venture to doubt whether 
he will be near so nice a fellow, and whether he would wel- 
come, with so good a grace, a couple of drenched English- 

20 men paddling into Brussels in the dusk. 

When we h?d changed our wet clothes and drunk a glass 
of pale ale to the Club's prosperity, one of their number 
escorted us to a hotel. He would not join us at our din- 
ner, but he had no objection to a glass of wine. Enthusi- 

25 asm is very wearing ; and I begin to understand why 
prophets were unpopular in Judasa, where they were best 
known. For three stricken hours did this excellent young 
man sit beside us to dilate on boats and boat-races; and 
before he left, he was kind enough to order our bed-room 

30 candles. 

We endeavored now and again to change the subject; 
but the diversion did not last a moment: the Royal 
Nautical Sportsman bridled, shied, answered the question, 



The Royal Sport Nautique 21 

and then breasted once more into the swelling tide of his 
subject. I call it his subject; but I think it was he who 
was subjected. The Arethusa, who holds all racing as a 
creature of the devil, found himself in a pitiful dilemma. 
He durst not own his ignorance for the honor of Old 5 
England, and spoke away about English clubs and Eng- 
lish oarsmen w T hose fame had never before come to his 
ears. Several times, and, once above all, on the question 
of sliding-seats, he was within an ace of exposure. As 
for the Cigarette, who has row T ed races in the heat of his 10 
blood, but now disowns these slips of his wanton youth, 
his case was still more desperate; for the Royal Nautical ' 
proposed that he should take an oar in one of their eights 
on the morrow, to compare the English with the Belgian 
stroke. I could see my friend perspiring in his chair 15 
whenever that particular topic came up. And there was 
yet another proposal which had the same effect on both of 
us. It appeared that the champion canoeist of Europe 
(as well as most other champions) was a Royal Nautical 
Sportsman. And if we would only wait until the Sunday, 20 
this infernal paddler would be so condescending as to 
accompany us on our next stage. Neither of us had 
the least desire to drive the coursers of the sun against 
Apollo. 

When the young man was gone, we countermanded our 25 
candles, and ordered some brandy and water. The great 
billows had gone over our head. The Royal Nautical 
Sportsmen were as nice young fellows as a man would wish 
to see, but they were a trifle too young and a thought too 
nautical for us. We began to see that we were old and 30 
cynical ; we liked ease and the agreeable rambling of the 
human mind about this and the other subject; we did not 
want to disgrace our native land by messing at eight, 
or toiling pitifully in the wake of the champion canoeist. 



22 An Inland Voyage 

In short, we had recourse to flight. It seemed ungrateful, 
but we tried to make that good on a card loaded with 
sincere compliments. And indeed it was no time for 
scruples ; we seemed to feel the hot breath of the champion 
5 on our necks. 



AT MAUBEUGE 

Partly from the terror we had of our good friends the 
Royal Nauticals, partly from the fact that there were no 
fewer than fifty-five locks between Brussels and Charleroi, 
we concluded that we should travel by train across the 
frontier, boats and all. Fifty-five locks in a day's journey 5 
was pretty well tantamount to trudging the whole distance 
on foot, with the canoes upon our shoulders, an object of 
astonishment to the trees on the canal side, and of honest 
derision to all right-thinking children. 

To pass the frontier, even in a train, is a difficult matter 10 
for the Arethusa. He is, somehow or other, a marked man 
for the official eye. Wherever he journeys, there are the 
officers gathered together. Treaties are solemnly signed, 
foreign ministers, ambassadors, and consuls sit throned in 
state from China to Peru, and the Union Jack flutters on 15 
all the winds of heaven. Under these safeguards, portly 
clergymen, schoolmistresses, gentlemen in gray tweed suits, 
and all the ruck and rabble of British touristry pour un- 
hindered, Murray in hand, over the railways of the con- 
tinent, and yet the slim person of the Arethusa is taken 20 
in the meshes, while these great fish go on their way 
rejoicing. If he travels without a passport, he is cast, 
without any figure about the matter, into noisome dun- 
geons: if his papers are in order, he is suffered to go his 
way indeed, but not until he has been humiliated by a 25 
general incredulity. He is a born British subject, yet he 
has never succeeded in persuading a single official of his 
nationality. He flatters himself he is indifferent honest; 



24 An Inland Voyage 

yet he is rarely taken for anything better than a spy, and 
there is no absurd and disreputable means of livelihood, 
but has been attributed to him in some heat of official or 
popular distrust. . ... 
5 For the life of me I cannot understand it. I too have 
been knolled to church, and sat at good men's feasts; but 
I bear no mark of it. I am as strange as a Jack Indian 
to their official spectacles. I might come from any part 
of the globe, it seems, except from where I do. My an- 

10 cestors have labored in vain, and the glorious Constitution 
cannot protect me in my walks abroad. It is a great thing, 
believe me, to present a good normal type of the nation you 
belong to. 

Nobody else was asked for his papers on the way to 

15 Maubeuge; but I was; and although I clung to my rights, 
I had to choose at last between accepting the humiliation 
and being left behind by the train. I was sorry to give 
way; but I wanted to get to Maubeuge. 

Maubeuge is a fortified town, with a very good inn, the 

20 Grand Cerf. It seemed to be inhabited principally by 
soldiers and bagmen ; at least, these were all that we saw, 
except the hotel servants. We had to stay there some 
time, for the canoes were in no hurry to follow us, and at 
last stuck hopelessly in the custom-house until we went 

25 back to liberate them. There was nothing to do, nothing 
to see. We had good meals, which was a great matter; 
but that was all. 

The Cigarette was nearly taken up upon a charge of 
drawing the fortifications: a feat of which he was hope- 

30 lessly incapable. And besides, as I suppose each belligerent 
nation has a plan of the other's fortified places already, 
these precautions are of the nature of shutting the stable 
door after the steed is away. But I have no doubt they 
help to keep up a good spirit at home. It is a great thing 



At Maubeuge 25 

if you can persuade people that they are somehow or 
other partakers in a mystery. It makes them feel bigger. 
Even the Freemasons, who have been shown up to satiety, 
preserve a kind of pride; and not a grocer among them, 
however honest, harmless, and empty-headed he may feel 5 
himself to be at bottom, but comes home from one of their 
coenacula with a portentous significance for himself. 

It is an odd thing, how happily two people, if there are 
two, can live in a place where they have no acquaintance. 
I think the spectacle of a whole life in which you have 10 
no part, paralyzes personal desire. You are content to 
become a mere spectator. The baker stands in his door; 
the colonel with his three medals goes by to the cafe at 
night ; the troops drum and trumpet and man the ramparts 
as bold as so many lions. It would task language to say 15 
how placidly you behold all this. In a place where you 
have taken some root, you are provoked out of your in- 
difference; you have a hand in the game; your friends are 
fighting with the army. But in a strange town, not small 
enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large as to have 20 
laid itself out for travelers, you stand so far apart from the 
business, that you positively forget it would be possible 
to go nearer ; you have so little human interest around you, 
that you do not remember yourself to be a man. Perhaps, 
in a very short time, you would be one no longer. Gym- 25 
nosophists go into a wood, with all nature seething around 
them, with romance on every side; it would be much more 
to the purpose,' if they took up their abode in a dull coun- 
try town, where they should see just so much of humanity 
as to keep them from desiring more, and only the stale ex- 30 
ternals of man's life. These externals are as dead to us 
as so many formalities, and speak a dead language in our 
eyes and ears. They have no more meaning than an oath 
or a salutation. We are so much accustomed to see mar- 



26 An Inland Voyage 

ried couples going to church of a Sunday that we have 
clean forgotten what they represent ; and novelists are 
driven to rehabilitate adultery, no less, when they wish to 
show us what a beautiful thing it is for a man and a 
5 woman to live for each other. 

One person in Maubeuge, however, showed me some- 
thing more than his outside. That was the driver of the 
hotel omnibus: a mean enough looking little man, as well 
as I can remember; but with a spark of something human 

10 in his soul. He had heard of our little journey, and came 
to me at once in envious sympathy. How he longed to 
travel ! he told me. How he longed to be somewhere else, 
and see the round world before he went into the grave! 
" Here I am," said he. " I drive to the station. Well. 

15 And then I drive back again to the hotel. And so on every 
day and all the week round. My God, is that life?" I 
could not say I thought it was — for him. He pressed me 
to tell him where I had been, and where I hoped to go; 
and as he listened, I declare the fellow sighed. Might not 

20 this have been a brave African traveler, or gone to the 
Indies after Drake? But it is an evil age for the gipsily 
inclined among men. He who can sit squarest on a three- 
legged stool, he it is who has the wealth and glory. 

I wonder if my friend is still driving the omnibus for 

25 the Grand Cerff Not very likely, I believe ; for I think 
he was on the eve of mutiny when we passed through, and 
perhaps our passage determined him for good. Better a 
thousand times that he should be a tramp, and mend pots 
and pans by the wayside, and sleep under trees, and see the 

30 dawn and the sunset every day above a new horizon. I 
think I hear you say that it is a respectable position to 
drive an omnibus? Very well. What right has he who 
likes it not, to keep those who would like it dearly out of 
this respectable position? Suppose a dish w T ere not to my 



At Maubeuge 27 

taste, and you told me that it was a favorite among the 
rest of the company, what should I conclude from that? 
Not to finish the dish against my stomach, I suppose. 

Respectability is a very good thing in its way, but it 
does not rise superior to all considerations. I would not 5 
for a moment venture to hint that it was a matter of taste ; 
but I think I will go as far as this: that if a position 
is admittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and 
superfluously useless, although it were as respectable as the 
Church of England, the sooner a man is out of it, the better 10 
for himself and all concerned. 



ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED: TO QUARTES 

About three in the afternoon the whole establishment 
of the Grand Cerf accompanied us to the water's edge. 
The man of the omnibus was there with haggard eyes. 
Poor cagebird ! Do I not remember the time when I my- 
5 self haunted the station, to watch train after train carry 
its complement of freemen into the night, and read the 
names of distant places on the time-bills with indescribable 
longings ? 

We were not clear of the fortifications before the rain 

10 began. The wind was contrary, and blew in furious gusts ; 
nor were the aspects of nature any more clement than the 
doings of the sky. For we passed through a stretch of 
blighted country, sparsely covered with brush, but hand- 
somely enough diversified with factory chimneys. We 

15 landed in a soiled meadow among some pollards, and there 
smoked a pipe in a flaw of fair weather. But the wind 
blew so hard, we could get little else to smoke. There 
were no natural objects in the neighborhood, but some 
sordid workshops. A group of children headed by a tall 

20 girl stood and watched us from a little distance all the 
time we stayed. I heartily wonder what they thought of 
us. 

At Hautmont, the lock was almost impassable; the land- 
ing place being steep and high, and the launch at a long 

25 distance. Near a dozen grimy workmen lent us a hand. 
They refused any reward ; and, what is much better, re- 
fused it handsomely, without conveying any sense of insult. 
" It is a way we have in our countryside," said they. 
28 



On the Sambre Canalized: to Quartes 29 

And a very becoming way it is. ' In Scotland, where also 
you will get services for nothing, the good people reject 
your money as if you had been trying to corrupt a voter. 
When people take the trouble to do dignified acts, it is 
worth while to take a little more, and allow the dignity 5 
to be common to all concerned. But in our brave Saxon 
countries, where we plod threescore years and ten in the 
mud, and the wind keeps singing in our ears from birth to 
burial, we do our good and bad with a high hand and 
almost offensively; and make even our alms a witness- 10 
bearing and an act of war against the wrong. 

After Hautmont, the sun came forth again and the wind 
went down; and a little paddling took us beyond the iron- 
works and through a delectable land. The river wound 
among low hills, so that sometimes the sun was at our 15 
backs, and sometimes it stood right ahead, and the river 
before us was one sheet of intolerable glory. On either 
hand, meadows and orchards bordered, with a margin of 
sedge and water flowers, upon the river. The hedges were 
of great height, woven about the trunks of hedgerow elms ; 20 
and the fields, as they were often very small, looked like a 
series of bowers along the stream. There was never any 
prospect; sometimes a hill-top with its trees would look 
over the nearest hedgerow, just to make a middle distance 
for the sky; but that was all. The heaven was bare of 25 
clouds. The atmosphere, after the rain, was of enchanting 
purity. The river doubled among the hillocks, a shining 
strip of mirror glass; and the dip of the paddles set the 
flowers shaking along the brink. 

In the meadows wandered black and white cattle fan- 30 
tastically marked. One beast, with a white head and the 
rest of the body glossy black, came to the edge to drink, 
and stood gravely twitching his ears at me as I went by, 
like some sort of preposterous clergyman in a play. A . 



30 An Inland Voyage 

moment after I heard a loud plunge, and, turning my 
head, saw the clergyman struggling to shore. The bank 
had given way under his feet. 

Besides the cattle, we saw no living things except a few 
5 birds and a great many fishermen. These sat along the 
edges of the meadows, sometimes with one rod, sometimes 
with as many as half a score. They seemed stupefied with 
contentment; and when we induced them to exchange a 
few words with us about the weather, their voices sounded 

10 quiet and far-away. There was a strange diversity of 
opinion among them as to the kind of fish for which they 
set their lures ; although they were all agreed in this, that 
the river was abundantly supplied. Where it was plain 
that no two of them had ever caught the same kind of 

15 fish, we could not help suspecting that perhaps not any 
one of them had ever caught a fish at all. I hope, since the 
afternoon was so lovely, that they were one and all re- 
warded ; and that a silver booty went home in every basket 
for the pot. Some of my friends would cry shame on me 

20 for this ; for I prefer a man, were he only an angler, to the 
bravest pair of gills in all God's waters. I do not affect 
fishes unless when cooked in sauce ; w T hereas an angler is an 
important piece of river scenery, and hence deserves some 
recognition among canoeists. He can always tell you 

25 where you are after a mild fashion ; and his quiet presence 
serves to accentuate the solitude and stillness, and remind 
you of the glittering citizens below your boat. 

The Sambre turned so industriously to and fro among 
his little hills, that it was past six before we drew near the 

30 lock at Quartes. There were some children on the tow- 
path, with whom the Cigarette fell into a chaffing talk as 
they ran along beside us. It was in vain that I warned 
him. In vain I told him, in English, that boys were the most 
dangerous creatures; and if once you began with them, it 



On the Sambre Canalized: to Quartes 31 

was safe to end in a shower of stones. For my own part, 
whenever anything was addressed to me, I smiled gently 
and shook my head as though I were an inoffensive per- 
son, inadequately acquainted with French. For indeed I 
have had such experience at home, that I would sooner 5 
meet many wild animals than a troop of healthy urchins. 

But I was doing injustice to these peaceable young 
Hainaulters. When the Cigarette went off to make in- 
quiries, I got out upon the bank to smoke a pipe and 
superintend the boats, and became at once the center of 10 
much amiable curiosity. The children had been joined by 
this time by a young woman and a mild lad who had lost 
an arm ; and this gave me more security. When I let slip 
my first word or so in French, a little girl nodded her head 
with a comical grown-up air. "Ah, you see," she said, 15 
"he understands well enough now; he was just making 
believe." And the little group laughed together very good- 
naturedly. 

They were much impressed when they heard we came 
from England ; and the little girl proffered the information 20 
that England was an island " and a far way from here — 
bien loin d'ici." 

" Ay, you may say that, a far way from here," said the 
lad with one arm. 

I was as nearly home-sick as ever I was in my life; they 25 
seemed to make it such an incalculable distance to the 
place where I first saw the day. 

They admired the canoes very much. And I observed 
one piece of delicacy in these children, which is worthy of 
record. They had been deafening us for the last hun- 30 
dred yards with petitions for a sail ; ay, and they deafened 
us to the same tune next morning when we came to start ; 
but then, when the canoes were lying empty, there was no 
word of any such petition. Delicacy? or perhaps a bit of 



32 An Inland Voyage 

fear for the water in so crank a vessel? I hate cynicism 
a great deal worse than I do the devil; unless perhaps the 
two were the same thing? And yet 'tis a good tonic; the 
cold tub and bath-towel of the sentiments; and positively 
5 necessary to life in cases of advanced sensibility. 

From the boats they turned to my costume. They could 
not make enough of my red sash ; and my knife filled them 
with awe. 

" They make them like that in England," said the boy 

10 with one arm. I was glad he did not know how badly we 
make them in England now-a-days. " They are for people 
who go away to sea," he added, " and to defend one's life 
against great fish." 

I felt I was becoming a more and more romantic figure 

15 to the little group at every word. And so I suppose I was. 
Even my pipe, although it was an ordinary French clay, 
pretty well " trousered," as they call it, would have a 
rarity in their eyes, as a thing coming from so far away. 
And if my feathers were not very fine in themselves they 

20 were all from over seas. One thing in my outfit, however, 
tickled them out of all politeness ; and that was the bemired 
condition of my canvas shoes. I suppose they were sure the 
mud at any rate was a home product. The little girl (who 
was the genius of the party) displayed her own sabots 

25 in competition ; and I wish you could have seen how grace- 
fully and merrily she did it. 

The young woman's milk can, a great amphora of ham- 
mered brass, stood some way off upon the sward. I was 
glad of an opportunity to divert public attention from 

30 myself, and return some of the compliments I had received. 
So I admired it cordially both for form and color, telling 
them, and very truly, that it was as beautiful as gold. 
They were not surprised. The things were plainly the 
boast of the countryside. And the children expatiated on 



On the Sambre Canalized: to Quartes 33 

the costliness of these amphorae, which sell sometimes as 
high as thirty francs apiece; told me how they were carried 
on donkeys, one on either side of the saddle, a brave 
caparison in themselves ; and how they were to be seen all 
over the district, and at the larger farms in great num- , 
ber and of great size. 



PONT-SUR-SAMBRE: WE ARE PEDLARS 

The Cigarette returned with good news. There were 
beds to be had some ten minutes' walk from where we w T ere, 
at a place called Pont. We stowed the canoes in a granary, 
and asked among the children for a guide. The circle 
5 at once widened round us, and our offers of reward were 
received in dispiriting silence. We were plainly a pair of 
Bluebeards to the children; they might speak to us in 
public places, and where they had the advantage of num- 
bers; but it was another thing to venture off alone with 

10 two uncouth and legendary characters, who had dropped 
from the clouds upon their hamlet this quiet afternoon, 
sashed and beknived, and with a flavor of great voyages. 
The owner of the granary came to our assistance, singled 
out one little fellow, and threatened him with corporalities ; 

15 or I suspect we should have had to find the way for our- 
selves. As it was, he was more frightened at the granary 
man than the strangers, having perhaps had some experi- 
ence of the former. But I fancy his little heart must have 
been going at a fine rate ; for he kept trotting at a respect- 

20 ful distance in front, and looking back at us with scared 
eyes. Not otherwise may the children of the young world 
have guided Jove or one of his Olympian compeers on an 
adventure. 

A miry lane led us up from Quartes with its church and 

25 bickering wind-mill. The hinds were trudging home- 
wards from the fields. A brisk little old woman passed us 
by. She was seated across a donkey between a pair of glit- 
tering milk cans; and, as she went, she kicked jauntily 



Pont-sur-Sambre : We are Pedlars 35 

with her heels upon the donkey's side, and scattered shrill 
remarks among the wayfarers. It was notable that 
none of the tired men took the trouble to reply. Our 
conductor soon led us out of the lane and across country. 
The sun had gone down, but the west in front of us was 5 
one lake of level gold. The path wandered awhile in the 
open, and then passed under a trellis like a bower indefi- 
nitely prolonged. On either hand were shadowy orchards ; 
cottages lay low among the leaves and sent their smoke to 
heaven; every here and there, in an opening, appeared the 10 
great gold face of the west. 

I never saw the Cigarette in such an idyllic frame of 
mind. He waxed positively lyrical in praise of country 
scenes. I was little less exhilaiated myself; the mild air 
of the evening, the shadows, the rich lights and the silence, 15 
made a symphonious accompaniment about our walk; and 
we both determined to avoid towns for the future and 
sleep in hamlets. 

At last the path went between two houses, and turned 
the party out into a wide muddy high-road, bordered, as 20 
far as the eye could reach on either hand, by an unsightly 
village. The houses stood well back, leaving a ribbon of 
waste land on either side of the road, where there were 
stacks of firewood, carts, barrows, rubbish heaps, and a little 
doubtful grass. Aw T ay on the left, a gaunt tower stood in 25 
the middle of the street. What it had been in past ages, 
I know not: probably a hold in time of war; but now-a- 
days it bore an illegible dial-plate in its upper parts, and 
near the bottom an iron letter-box. 

The inn to which we had been recommended at Quartes 30 
was full, or else the landlady did not like our looks. I 
ought to say, that with our long, damp india-rubber bags, 
we presented rather a doubtful type of civilization : like rag- 
and-bone men, the Cigarette imagined. " These gentlemen 



2,6 An Inland Voyage 

are pedlars?" — Ces messieurs sont des marchandsf — asked 
the landlady. And then, without waiting for an answer, 
which I suppose she thought superfluous in so plain a case, 
recommended us to a butcher who lived hard by the tower 
5 and took in travelers to lodge. 

Thither went we. But the butcher was flitting, and all 

his beds were taken down. Or else he didn't like our look. 

As a parting shot, we had, " These gentlemen are pedlars ? " 

It began to grow dark in earnest. We could no longer 

10 distinguish the faces of the people who passed us by with 
an inarticulate good-evening. And the householders of 
Pont seemed very economical with their oil ; for we saw 
not a single window lighted in all that long village. I 
believe it is the longest village in the world ; but I dare say 

15 in our predicament every pace counted three times over. 
We were much cast down when we came to the last 
auberge; and looking in at the dark door, asked timidly if 
we could sleep there for the night. A female voice as- 
sented in no very friendly tones. We clapped the bags 

20 down and found our way to chairs. 

The place was in total darkness, save a red glow in the 
chinks and ventilators of the stove. But now the land- 
lady lit a lamp to see her new guests ; I suppose the dark- 
ness was what saved us another expulsion ; for I cannot say 

25 she looked gratified at our appearance. We were in a 
large bare apartment, adorned with two allegorical prints 
of Music and Painting, and a copy of the Law against 
Public Drunkenness. On one side, there was a bit of a 
bar, with some half-a-dozen bottles. Two laborers sat 

30 waiting supper, in attitudes of extreme weariness ; a 
plain-looking lass bustled about with a sleepy child of two ; 
and the landlady began to derange the pots upon the stove 
and set some beefsteak to grill. 

"These gentlemen are pedlars?" she asked sharply. 



Pont-sur-Sambre : We are Pedlars 37 

And that was all the conversation forthcoming. We 
began to think we might be pedlars after all. I never 
knew a population with so narrow a range of conjecture as 
the inn-keepers of Pont-sur-Sambre. But manners and 
bearing have not a wider currency than bank-notes. You 5 
have only to get far enough out of your beat, and all 
your accomplished airs will go for nothing. These Hai- 
naulters could see no difference between us and the average 
pedlar. Indeed we had some grounds for reflection while 
the steak was getting ready, to see how perfectly they 10 
accepted us at their own valuation, and how our best 
politeness and best efforts at entertainment seemed to fit 
quite suitably with the character of packmen. At least 
it seemed a good account of the profession in France, that 
even before such judges, we could not beat them at our 15 
own weapons. 

At last we were called to table. The two hinds (and 
one of them looked sadly worn and white in the face, as 
though sick with over-work and under-feeding) supped off 
a single plate of some sort of bread-berry, some potatoes in 20 
their jackets, a small cup of coffee sweetened with sugar 
candy, and one tumbler of swipes. The landlady, her son, 
and the lass aforesaid took the same. Our meal was quite 
a banquet by comparison. We had some beefsteak, not 
so tender as it might have been, some of the potatoes, some 25 
cheese, an extra glass of the swipes, and white sugar in 
our coffee. 

You see what it is to be a gentleman — I beg your par- 
don, what it is to be a pedlar. It had not before occurred 
to me that a pedlar was a great man in a laborer's ale- 30 
house ; but now that I had to enact the part for an evening, 
I found that so it was. He has, in his hedge quarters, 
somewhat the same preeminency as the man who takes a 
private parlor in a hotel. The more you look into it, the 



38 An Inland Voyage 

more infinite are the class distinctions among men; and 
possibly, by a happy dispensation, there is no one at all at 
the bottom of the scale; no one but can find some superi- 
ority over somebody else, to keep up his pride withal. 
5 We were displeased enough with our fare. Particularly 
the Cigarette; for I tried to make believe that I was 
amused with the adventure, tough beefsteak and all. Ac- 
cording to the Lucretian maxim, our steak should have 
been flavored by the look of the other people's bread-berry. 

10 But we did not find it so in practice. You may have a 
head knowledge that other people live more poorly than 
3-ourself, but it is not agreeable — I was going to say, it is 
against the etiquette of the universe — to sit at the same 
table and pick 30ur own superior diet from among their 

15 crusts. I had not seen such a thing done since the greedy 
boy at school with his birthday cake. It was odious enough 
to witness, I could remember ; and I had never thought to 
play the part myself. But there again you see what it is 
to be a pedlar. 

20 There is no doubt that the poorer classes in our country 
are much more charitably disposed than their superiors in 
wealth. And I fancy it must arise a great deal from the 
comparative indistinction of the easy and the not so easy 
in these ranks. A workman or a pedlar cannot shutter 

25 himself off from his less comfortable neighbors. If he 
treats himself to a luxury, he must do it in the face of a 
dozen who cannot. And what should more directly lead to 
charitable thoughts? . . . Thus the poor man, camping 
out in life, sees it as it is, and knows that every mouthful 

30 he puts in his belly has been wrenched out of the fingers of 
the hungry. 

But at a certain stage of prosperity, as in a balloon 
ascent, the fortunate person passes through a zone of 
clouds, and sublunary matters are thenceforward hidden 



Pont-sur-Sambre : We are Pedlars 39 

from his view. He sees nothing but the heavenly bodies, 
all in admirable order and positively as good as new. He 
finds himself surrounded in the most touching manner by 
the attentions of Providence, and compares himself in- 
voluntarily with the lilies and the skylarks. He does not 5 
precisely sing, of course; but then he looks so unassuming 
in his open landau! If all the world dined at one table, 
this philosophy would meet w T ith some rude knocks. 



PONT-SUR-SAMBRE: THE TRAVELING 
MERCHANT 

Like the lackeys in Moliere's farce, when the true 
nobleman broke in on their high life below stairs, we were 
destined to be confronted with a real pedlar. To make the 
lesson still more poignant for fallen gentlemen like us, 
5 he was a pedlar of infinitely more consideration than the 
sort of scurvy fellows we were taken for: like a lion among 
mice, or a ship of war bearing down upon two cock-boats. 
Indeed, he did not deserve the name of pedlar at all: he 
was a traveling merchant. 

10 I suppose it was about half-past eight when this worthy, 
Monsieur Hector Gilliard of Maubeuge, turned up at the 
ale-house door in a tilt cart drawn by a donkey, and cried 
cheerily on the inhabitants. He was a lean, nervous 
flibbertigibbet of a man, with something the look of an 

15 actor, and something the look of a horse jockey. He had 
evidently prospered without any of the favors of educa- 
tion ; for he adhered with stern simplicity to the masculine 
gender, and in the course of the evening passed off some 
fancy futures in a very florid style of architecture. With 

20 him came his wife, a comely young woman with her hair 
tied in a yellow kerchief, and their son, a little fellow of 
four, in a blouse and military kepi. It was notable that 
the child was many degrees better dressed than either of 
the parents. We were informed he was already at a board- 

25 ing school; but the holidays having just commenced, he 
was off to spend them with his parents on a cruise. 
An enchanting holiday occupation, was it not? to travel all 



Pont-sur-Sambre : the Traveling Merchant 41 

day with father and mother in the tilt cart full of count- 
less treasures ; the green country rattling by on either side, 
and the children in all the villages contemplating him with 
envy and wonder? It is better fun, during the holidays, to 
be the son of a traveling merchant, than son and heir to the 5 
greatest cotton spinner in creation. And as for being a 
reigning prince — indeed I never saw T one if it was not 
Master Gilliard! 

While M. Hector and the son of the house were putting 
up the donkey, and getting all the valuables under lock 10 
and key, the landlady warmed up the remains of our beef- 
steak, and fried the cold potatoes in slices, and Madame 
Gilliard set herself to waken the boy, who had come far 
that day, and was peevish and dazzled by the light. He 
was no sooner awake than he began to prepare himself for 15 
supper by eating galette, unripe pears, and cold potatoes — 
with, so far as I could judge, positive benefit to his appetite. 

The landlady, fired with motherly emulation, awoke her 
own little girl; and the two children w T ere confronted. 
Master Gilliard looked at her for a moment, very much 20 
as a dog looks at his own reflection in a mirror before he 
turns away. He was at that time absorbed in the galette. 
His mother seemed crestfallen that he should display so 
little inclination towards the other sex; and expressed her 
disappointment with some candor and a very proper refer- 25 
ence to the influence of years. 

Sure enough a time will come when he will pay more 
attention to the girls, and think a great deal less of his 
mother: let us hope she will like it as well as she seemed 
to fancy. But it is odd enough; the very women who 30 
profess most contempt for mankind as a sex seem to 
find even its ugliest particulars rather lively and high- 
minded in their own sons. 

The little girl looked longer and with more interest, 



42 An Inland Voyage 

probably because she was in her own house, while he was 
a traveler and accustomed to strange sights. And besides 
there was no galette in the case with her. 

All the time of supper, there was nothing spoken of but 
5 my young lord. The two parents were both absurdly 
fond of their child. Monsieur kept insisting on his 
sagacity : how he knew all the children at school by name ; 
and when this utterly failed on trial, how he was cautious 
and exact to a strange degree, and if asked anything, he 

10 would sit and think — and think, and if he did not know 
it, " my faith, he wouldn't tell you at all — ma foij il ne 
vous le dira pas." Which is certainly a very high degree 
of caution. At intervals, M. Hector would appeal to his 
wife, with his mouth full of beefsteak, as to the little 

15 fellow's age at such or such a time when he had said or 
done something memorable; and I noticed that Madame 
usually pooh-poohed these inquiries. She herself was not 
boastful in her vein ; but she never had her fill of caressing 
the child ; and she seemed to take a gentle pleasure in re- 

20 calling all that was fortunate in his little existence. No 
schoolboy could have talked more of the holidays which 
were just beginning and less of the black schooltime w T hich 
must inevitably follow after. She showed, with a pride 
perhaps partly mercantile in origin, his pockets prepos- 

25 terously swollen with tops and whistles and string. 
When she called at a house in the way of business, it ap- 
peared he kept her company; and whenever a sale was 
made, received a sou out of the profit. Indeed they 
spoiled him vastly, these two good people. But they had 

30 an eye to his manners for all that, and reproved him for 
some little faults in breeding, which occurred from time 
to time during supper. 

On the whole, I was not much hurt at being taken for a 
pedlar. I might think that I ate with greater delicacy, or 



Pont-sur-Sambre : the Traveling Merchant 43 

that my mistakes in French belonged to a different order; 
but it was plain that these distinctions would be thrown 
aw T ay upon the landlady and the two laborers. In all 
essential things, we and the Gilliards cut very much the 
same figure in the ale-house kitchen. M. Hector was more 5 
at home, indeed, and took a higher tone with the world ; 
but that w T as explicable on the ground of his driving a 
donkey-cart, while we poor bodies tramped afoot. I dare 
say, the rest of the company thought us dying w T ith envy, 
though in no ill-sense, to be as far up in the profession 10 
as the new arrival. 

And of one thing I am sure : that every one thawed and 
became more humanized and conversable as soon as these 
innocent people appeared upon the scene. I would not 
very readily trust the traveling merchant with any ex- 15 
travagant sum of money; but I am sure his heart was in 
the right place. In this mixed world, if you can find one 
or two sensible places in a man, above all, if you should 
find a whole family living together on such pleasant terms, 
you may surely be satisfied, and take the rest for granted ; 20 
or, what is a great deal better, boldly make up your mind 
that you can do perfectly well without the rest; and that 
ten thousand bad traits cannot make a single good one 
any the less good. 

It was getting late. M. Hector lit a stable lantern and 25 
went off to his cart for some arrangements ; and my young 
gentleman proceeded to divest himself of the better part 
of his raiment, and play gymnastics on his mother's lap, 
and thence on to the floor, with accompaniment of 
laughter. 30 

" Are you going to sleep alone? " asked the servant lass. 

"There's little fear of that," says Master Gilliard. 

"You sleep alone at school," objected his mother. 
" Come, come, you must be a man." 



44 An Inland Voyage 

But he protested that school was a different matter from 
the holidays ; that there were dormitories at school ; and 
silenced the discussion with kisses: his mother smiling, no 
one better pleased than she. 
5 There certainly was, as he phrased it, very little fear 
that he should sleep alone ; for there was but one bed for 
the trio. We, on our part, had firmly protested against 
one man's accommodation for two ; and we had a double- 
bedded pen in the loft of the house, furnished, beside the 

10 beds, with exactly three hat pegs and one table. There 
was not so much as a glass of water. But the window 
would open, by good fortune. 

Some time before I fell asleep the loft was full of the 
sound of mighty snoring: the Gilliards, and the laborers, 

15 and the people of the inn, all at it, I suppose, w T ith one 
consent. The young moon outside shone very clearly over 
Pont-sur-Sambre, and down upon the ale-house where 
all we pedlars were abed. 



ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED: TO 
LANDRECIES 

In the morning, when we came down-stairs, the land- 
lady pointed out to us two pails of water behind the street 
door. " Voila de Veau pour vous debarbouiller," says she. 
And so there we made a shift to wash ourselves, while 
Madame Gilliard brushed the family boots on the outer 5 
doorstep, and M. Hector, whistling cheerily, arranged 
some small goods for the day's campaign in a portable 
chest of drawers, which formed a part of his baggage. 
Meanwhile the child was letting off Waterloo crackers 
all over the floor. 10 

I wonder, by-the-by, what they call Waterloo crackers 
in France; perhaps Austerlitz crackers. There is a great 
deal in the point of view. Do you remember the French- 
man who, traveling by way of Southampton, was put 
down in Waterloo Station, and had to drive across Water- 15 
loo Bridge? He had a mind to go home again, it seems. 

Pont itself is on the river, but whereas it is ten minutes' 
walk from Quartes by dry land, it is six weary kilometers 
by water. We left our bags at the inn, and walked to our 
canoes through the wet orchards unencumbered. Some 20 
of the children were there to see us off, but we were no 
longer the mysterious beings of the night before. A de- 
parture is much less romantic than an unexplained arrival 
in the golden evening. Although we might be greatly 
taken at a ghost's first appearance, we should behold him 25 
vanish with comparative equanimity. 

The good folk of the inn at Pont, when we called there 



46 An Inland Voyage 

for the bags, were overcome with marveling. At sight of 
these two dainty little boats, with a fluttering Union Jack 
on each, and all the varnish shining from the sponge, they 
began to perceive that they had entertained angels una- 
5 wares. The landlady stood upon the bridge, probably la- 
menting she had charged so little; the son ran to and fro, 
and called out the neighbors to enjoy the sight; and we 
paddled away from quite a crowd of rapt observers. 
These gentlemen pedlars, indeed! Now you see their 

10 quality too late. 

The whole day was showery, with occasional drenching 
plumps. We were soaked to the skin, then partially 
dried in the sun, then soaked once more. But there were 
some calm intervals, and one notably, when we were skirt- 

15 ing the forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the ear, but a 
place most gratifying to sight and smell. It looked solemn 
along the riverside, drooping its boughs into the water, 
and piling them up aloft into a wall of leaves. What is a 
forest but a city of nature's own, full of hardy and innocu- 

20 ous living things, w T here there is nothing dead and nothing 
made with the hands, but the citizens themselves are the 
houses and public monuments ? There is nothing so much 
alive, and yet so quiet, as a woodland ; and a pair of people, 
swinging past in canoes, feel very small and bustling by 

25 comparison. 

And surely of all smells in the world, the smell of many 
trees is the sweetest and most fortifying. The sea has a 
rude, pistoling sort of odor, that takes you in the nostrils 
like snuff, and carries with it a fine sentiment of open water 

30 and tall ships ; but the smell of a forest, which comes 
nearest to this in tonic quality, surpasses it by many 
degrees in the quality of softness. Again, the smell of the 
sea has little variety, but the smell of a forest is infinitely 
changeful; it varies with the hour of the day not in 



On the Sambre Canalized: to Landrecies 47 

strength merely, but in character; and the different sorts 
of trees, as you go from one zone of the wood to another, 
seem to live among different kinds of atmosphere. Usu- 
ally the resin of the fir predominates. But some woods are 
more coquettish in their habits ; and the breath of the forest 5 
of Mormal, as it came aboard upon us that showery after- 
noon, was perfumed with nothing less delicate than sweet- 
briar. 

I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees 
are the most civil society. An old oak that has been 10 
growing where he stands since before the Reformation, 
taller than many spires, more stately than the greater part 
of mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to sicknesses 
and death, like you and me : is not that in itself a speaking 
lesson in history? But acres and acres full of such patri- 15 
archs contiguously rooted, their green tops billowing in 
the wind, their stalwart younglings pushing up about their 
knees: a whole forest, healthy and beautiful, giving color 
to the light, giving perfume to the air: what is this but 
the most imposing piece in nature's repertory? Heine 20 
wished to lie like Merlin under the oaks of Broceliande. I 
should not be satisfied with one tree ; but if the wood grew 
together like a banyan grove, I would be buried under 
the tap-root of the whole; my parts should circulate from 
oak to oak; and my consciousness should be diffused 25 
abroad in all the forest, and give a common heart to that 
assembly of green spires, so that it also might rejoice in its 
own loveliness and dignity. I think I feel a thousand 
squirrels leaping from bough to bough in my vast mauso- 
leum; and the birds and the winds merrily coursing over 30 
its uneven, leafy surface. 

Alas! the forest of Mormal is only a little bit of a wood, 
and it was but for a little way that we skirted by its 
boundaries. And the rest of the time the rain kept coming 



48 An Inland Voyage 

in squirts and the wind in squalls, until one's heart grew 
weary of such fitful, scolding weather. It was odd how 
the showers began when we had to carry the boats over a 
lock, and must expose our legs. They always did. This 
5 is a sort of thing that readily begets a personal feeling 
against nature. There seems no reason why the shower 
should not come five minutes before or five minutes after, 
unless you suppose an intention to affront you. The 
Cigarette had a mackintosh which put him more or less 

10 above these contrarieties. But I had to bear the brunt 
uncovered. I began to remember that nature was a 
woman. My companion, in a rosier temper, listened with 
great satisfaction to my Jeremiads, and ironically con- 
curred. He instanced, as a cognate matter, the action of 

15 the tides, "Which," said he, "was altogether designed for 
the confusion of canoeists, except in so far as it was cal- 
culated to minister to a barren vanity on the part of the 
moon." 

At the last lock, some little way out of Landrecies, I 

20 refused to go any further ; and sat in a drift of rain by the 
side of the bank, to have a reviving pipe. A vivacious old 
man, whom I take to have been the devil, drew near and 
questioned me about our journey. In the fullness of my 
heart, I laid bare our plans before him. He said, it was 

25 the silliest enterprise that ever he heard of. Why, did I 
not know, he asked me, that it was nothing but locks, locks, 
locks, the whole way? not to mention that, at this season 
of the year, we should find the Oise quite dry? " Get into 
a train, my little young man," said he, " and go you away 

30 home to your parents." I was so astounded at the man's 
malice, that I could only stare at him in silence. A tree 
would never have spoken to me like this. At last, I got 
out with some words. We had come from Antwerp al- 
ready, I told him, which was a good long way; and we 



On the Sambre Canalized: to Landrecies 49 

should do the rest in spite of him. Yes, I said, if there 
were no other reason, I would do it now, just because he 
had dared to say we could not. The pleasant old gentle- 
man looked at me sneeringly, made an allusion to my 
canoe, and marched off, wagging his head. 5 

I was still inwardly fuming, when up came a pair of 
3'oung fellows, who imagined I was the Cigarette's servant, 
on a comparison, I suppose, of my bare jersey with the 
other's mackintosh, and asiced me many questions about 
my place and my master's character. I said he was a 10 
good enough fellow, but had this absurd voyage on the 
head. " O no, no," said one, "you must not say that; it 
is not absurd; it is very courageous of him." I believe 
these were a couple of angels sent to give me heart again. 
It was truly fortifying to reproduce all the old man's 15 
insinuations, as if they were original to me in my char- 
acter of a malcontent footman, and have them brushed 
away like so many flies by these admirable young men. 

When I recounted this affair to the Cigarette, "They 
must have a curious idea of how English servants behave," 20 
says he, dryly, " for you treated me like a brute beast at 
the lock." 

I was a good deal mortified; but my temper had suf- 
fered, it is a fact. 



AT LANDRECIES 

At Landrecles the rain still fell and the wind still blew; 
but we found a double-bedded room with plenty of furni- 
ture, real water-jugs with real water in them, and dinner; 
a real dinner, not innocent of real wine. After having 
5 been a pedlar for one night, and a butt for the elements 
during the whole of the next day, these comfortable cir- 
cumstances fell on my heart like sunshine. There was an 
English fruiterer at dinner, traveling with a Belgian 
fruiterer ; in the evening at the cafe, we watched our com- 

10 patriot drop a good deal of money at corks ; and I don't 
know why, but this pleased us. 

It turned out we were to see more of Landrecies than 
we expected; for the weather next day was simply bed- 
lamite. It is not the place one would have chosen for a 

15 day's rest; for it consists almost entirely of fortifications. 
Within the ramparts, a few blocks of houses, a long row of 
barracks, and a church, figure, with what countenance they 
may, as the town. There seems to be no trade; and a 
shopkeeper from whom I bought a sixpenny flint and steel 

20 was so much affected, that he filled my pockets with spare 
flints into the bargain. The only public buildings that 
had any interest for us were the hotel and the cafe. 
But we visited the church. There lies Marshal Clarke. 
But as neither of us had ever heard of that military hero, 

25 we bore the associations of the spot with fortitude. 

In all garrison towns, guard-calls, and reveilles, and 
such like, make a fine romantic interlude in civic business. 
Bugles, and drums, and fifes, are of themselves most ex- 
50 



At Landrecies 5 1 

cellent things in nature; and when they carry the mind to 
marching armies and the picturesque vicissitudes of war, 
they stir up something proud in the heart. But in a 
shadow of a town like Landrecies, with little else moving, 
these points of war made a proportionate commotion. 5 
Indeed, they were the only things to remember. It was 
just the place to hear the round going by at night in the 
darkness, w T ith the solid tramp of men marching, and the 
startling reverberations of the drum. It reminded you, 
that even this place was a point in the great warfaring 10 
system of Europe, and might on some future day be ringed 
about w T ith cannon smoke and thunder, and make itself 
a name among strong towns. 

The drum, at any rate, from its martial voice and 
notable physiological effect, nay, even from its cumbrous 15 
and comical shape, stands alone among the instruments 
of noise. And if it be true, as I have heard it said, that 
drums are covered with asses' skin, what a picturesque 
irony is there in that! As if this long-suffering animal's 
hide had not been sufficiently belabored during life, now 20 
by Lyonnese costermongers, now by presumptuous Hebrew- 
prophets, it must be stripped from his poor hinder quarters 
after death, stretched on a drum, and beaten night after 
night round the streets of every garrison town in Europe. 
And up the heights of Alma and Spicheren, and wherever 25 
death has his red flag a-flying, and sounds his own potent 
tuck upon the cannons, there also must the drummer boy, 
hurrying with white face over fallen comrades, batter 
and bemaul this slip of skin from the loins of peaceable 
donkeys. 30 

Generally a man is never more uselessly employed than 
when he is at this trick of bastinadoing asses' hide. We 
know what effect it has in life, and how your dull ass will 
not mend his pace with beating. But in this state of 



52 An Inland Voyage 

mummy and melancholy survival of itself, when the hol- 
low skin reverberates to the drummer's wrist, and each 
dub-a-dub goes direct to a man's heart, and puts madness 
there, and that disposition of the pulses which we, in our 
5 big way of talking, nickname Heroism : — is there not some- 
thing in the nature of a revenge upon the donkey's perse- 
cutors? Of old, he might say, you drubbed me up hill 
and down dale, and I must endure ; but now that I am 
dead, those dull thwacks that were scarcely audible in 

10 country lanes, have become stirring music in front of the 
brigade; and for every blow that you lay on my old great 
coat, you will see a comrade stumble and fall. 

Not long after the drums had passed the cafe, the 
Cigarette and the Arethusa began to grow sleepy, and 

15 set out for the hotel which was only a door or two away. 
But although we had been somewhat indifferent to Lan- 
drecies, Landrecies had not been indifferent to us. All 
day, we learned, people had been running out between the 
squalls to visit our two boats. Hundreds of persons, so 

20 said report, although it fitted ill with our idea of the town 

— hundreds of persons had inspected them where they lay 

in a coal-shed. We were becoming lions in Landrecies, 

who had been only pedlars the night before in Pont. 

And now, when we left the cafe, we were pursued and 

25 overtaken at the hotel door, by no less a person than the 
luge de Paix: a functionary, as far as I can make out, 
of the character of a Scotch Sheriff Substitute. He gave 
us his card and invited us to sup with him on the spot, 
very neatly, very gracefully, as Frenchmen can do these 

nothings. It was for the credit of Landrecies, said he; and 
although we knew very well how little credit we could 
do the place, we must have been churlish fellows to refuse 
an invitation so politely introduced. 

The house of the Judge was close by; it was a well- 



At Landrecies 53 

appointed bachelor's establishment with a curious collec- 
tion of old brass warming-pans upon the walls. Some 
of these were mostly elaborately carved. It seemed a pic- 
turesque idea for a collector. You could not help thinking 
how many night-caps had wagged over these warming-pans 5 
in past generations; what jests may have been made, and 
kisses taken, while they w r ere in service ; and how often 
they had been uselessly paraded in the bed of death. If 
the} could only speak, at what absurd, indecorous, and 
tragical scenes had they not been present! 10 

The wine was excellent. When we made the Judge our 
compliments upon a bottle, " I do not give it to you as my 
worst," said he. I wonder when Englishmen will learn 
these hospitable graces. They are worth learning; they 
set off life, and make ordinary moments ornamental. 15 

There were two other Landrecienses present. One was 
the collector of something or other, I forget what; the 
other, we were told, was the principal notary of the place. 
So it happened that we all five more or less followed the 
law. At this rate, the talk was pretty certain to become 20 
technical. The Cigarette expounded the poor laws very 
magisterially. And a little later I found myself laying 
down the Scotch Law of Illegitimacy, of which I am glad 
to say I know nothing. The collector and the notary, 
who were both married men, accused the Judge, who was 25 
a bachelor, of having started the subject. He deprecated 
the charge, with a conscious, pleased air, just like all the 
men I have ever seen, be they French or English. How 
strange that we should all, in our unguarded moments, 
rather like to be thought a bit of a rogue with the women ! 30 

As the evening went on, the wine grew more to my 
taste; the spirits proved better than the wine; the com- 
pany was genial. This was the highest water mark of 
popular favor on the whole cruise. After all, being in a 



54 An Inland Voyage 

Judge's house, was there not something semi-official in the 
tribute? And so, remembering what a great country 
France is, we did full justice to our entertainment. Lan- 
drecies had been a long while asleep before we returned 
5 to the hotel ; and the sentries on the ramparts were already 
looking for daybreak. 



SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL: CANAL BOATS 

Next day we made a late start in the rain. The Judge 
politely escorted us to the end of the lock under an um- 
brella. We had now brought ourselves to a pitch of 
humility in the matter of weather, not often attained 
except in the Scotch Highlands. A rag of blue sky or a 5 
glimpse of sunshine set our hearts singing; and when the 
rain was not heavy, we counted the day almost fair. 

Long lines of barges lay one after another along the 
canal; many of them looking mighty spruce and ship- 
shape in their jerkin of Archangel tar picked out with 10 
white and green. Some carried gay iron railings, and 
quite a parterre of flowerpots. Children played on the 
decks, as heedless of the rain as if they had been brought 
up on Loch Carron side; men fished over the gunwale, 
some of them under umbrellas ; women did their washing ; 15 
and every barge boasted its mongrel cur by way of watch- 
dog. Each one barked furiously at the canoes, running 
alongside until he had got to the end of his own ship, and 
so passing on the word to the dog aboard the next. We 
must have seen something like a hundred of these em- 20 
barkations in the course of that day's paddle, ranged one 
after another like the houses in a street ; and from not one 
of them were we disappointed of this accompaniment. It 
was like visiting a menagerie, the Cigarette remarked. 

These little cities by the canal side had a very odd effect 25 
upon the mind. They seemed, with their flowerpots and 
smoking chimneys, their washings and dinners, a rooted 
55 



$6 An Inland Voyage 

piece of nature in the scene; and yet if only the canal 
below were to open, one junk after another would hoist 
sail or harness horses and swim away into all parts of 
France; and the impromptu hamlet would separate, 
5 house by house, to the four winds. The children who 
played together to-day by the Sambre and Oise Canal, 
each at his own father's threshold, when and where might 
they next meet? 

For some time past the subject of barges had occupied a 

10 great deal of our talk, and we had projected an old age on 
the canals of Europe. It was to be the most leisurely of 
progresses, now on a swift river at the tail of a steam-boat, 
now waiting horses for days together on some inconsider- 
able junction. We should be seen pottering on deck in all 

15 the dignity of years, our white beards falling into our 
laps. We were ever to be busied among paint-pots; so 
that there should be no white fresher, and no green more 
emerald than ours, in all the navy of the canals. There 
should be books in the cabin, and tobacco jars, and some 

20 old Burgundy as red as a November sunset and as odorous 
as a violet in April. There should be a flageolet whence 
the Cigarette, with cunning touch, should draw melting 
music under the stars; or perhaps, laying that aside, up- 
raise his voice — somewhat thinner than of yore, and with 

25 here and there a quaver, or call it a natural grace note — 
in rich and solemn psalmody. 

All this simmering in my mind, set me wishing to go 
aboard one of these ideal houses of lounging. I had plenty 
to choose from, as I coasted one after another, and the 

30 dogs bayed at me for a vagrant. At last I saw a nice old 
man and his wife looking at me with some interest, so I 
gave them good day and pulled up alongside. I began 
with a remark upon their dog, which had somewhat the 
look of a pointer; thence I slid into a compliment on 



Sambre and Oise Canal: Canal Boats 57 

Madame's flowers, and thence into a word in praise of 
their way of life. 

If you ventured on such an experiment in England you 
would get a slap in the face at once. The life w T ould be 
shown to be a vile one, not without a side shot at your 5 
better fortune. Now, what I like so much in France is the 
clear unflinching recognition by everybody of his own luck. 
They all know on which side their bread is buttered, and 
take a pleasure in showing it to others, which is surely the 
better part of religion. And they scorn to make a poor 10 
mouth over their poverty, which I take to be the better 
part of manliness. I have heard a woman in quite a better 
position at home, with a good bit of money in hand, refer 
to her own child with a horrid whine as " a poor man's 
child." I would not say such a thing to the Duke of 15 
Westminster. And the French are full of this spirit of 
independence. Perhaps it is the result of republican in- 
stitutions, as they call them. Much more likely it is be- 
cause there are so few people really poor, that the whiners 
are not enough to keep each other in countenance. 20 

The people on the barge were delighted to hear that I 
admired their state. They understood perfectly well, they 
told me, how T Monsieur envied them. Without doubt 
Monsieur was rich ; and in that case he might make a 
canal boat as pretty as a villa — joli comme un chateau. 25 
And with that they invited me on board their own water 
villa. They apologized for their cabin ; they had not been 
rich enough to make it as it ought to be. 

" The fire should have been here, at this side," explained 
the husband. " Then one might have a writing-table in 30 
the middle — books — and [comprehensively] all. It would 
be quite coquettish — ca serait tout-a-fait coquet." And 
he looked about him as though the improvements were 
already made. It was plainly not the first time that he 



58 An Inland Voyage 

had thus beautified his cabin in imagination; and when 
next he makes a hit, I should expect to see the writing- 
table in the middle. 

Madame had three birds in a cage. They were no 
5 great thing, she explained. Fine birds were so dear. They 
had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in Rouen 
(Rouen? thought I; and is this whole mansion, with its 
dogs and birds and smoking chimneys, so far a traveler as 
that? and as homely an object among the cliffs and or- 

10 chards of the Seine as on the green plains of Sambre?) — 
they had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in Rouen ; 
but these cost fifteen francs apiece — picture it — fifteen 
francs ! 

"Pour un tout petit oiseau — For quite a little bird," 

15 added the husband. 

As I continued to admire, the apologetics died away, 
and the good people began to brag of their barge, and their 
happy condition in life, as if they had been Emperor and 
Empress of the Indies. It was, in the Scotch phrase, a 

20 good hearing, and put me in good humor with the world. 
If people knew what an inspiriting thing it is to hear a man 
boasting, so long as he boasts of what he really has, I 
believe they would do it more freely and with a better 
grace. 

25 They began to ask about our voyage. You should have 
seen how they sympathized. They seemed half ready to 
give up their barge and follow us. But these canaletti 
are only gipsies semi-domesticated. The semi-domestica- 
tion came out in rather a pretty form. Suddenly Ma- 

30 dame's brow darkened. " Cependant" she began, and 
then stopped; and then began again by asking me if I 
were single? 
"Yes," said I. 
"And your friend who went by just now?" 



Sambre and Oise Canal: Canal Boats 59 

He also was unmarried. 

O then — all was well. She could not have wives left 
alone at home; but since there were no wives in the ques- 
tion, we were doing the best we could. 

" To see about one in the world," said the husband, 5 
" il ny a que ca — there is nothing else worth while. A 
man, look you, who sticks in his own village like a bear," 
he went on, " — very well, he sees nothing. And then 
death is the end of all. And he has seen nothing." 

Madame reminded her husband of an Englishman who 10 
had come up this canal in a steamer. 

" Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene/ J I suggested. 

"That's it," assented the husband. " He had his wife 
and family with him, and servants. He came ashore at 
all the locks and asked the name of the villages, whether 15 
from boatmen or lock-keepers; and then he wrote, wrote 
them down. O he wrote enormously! I suppose it was 
a wager." 

A wager was a common enough explanation for our 
own exploits, but it seemed an original reason for taking 20 
notes. 



THE OISE IN FLOOD 

Before nine next morning the two canoes were installed 
on a light country cart at Etreux: and we were soon fol- 
lowing them along the side of a pleasant valley full of hop- 
gardens and poplars. Agreeable villages lay here and 
5 there on the slope of the hill ; notably, Tupigny, with the 
hop-poles hanging their garlands in the very street, and 
the houses clustered with grapes. There was a faint en- 
thusiasm on our passage; weavers put their heads to the 
windows; children cried out in ecstasy at sight of the 

10 two " boaties " — barquettes: and bloused pedestrians, who 
were acquainted with our charioteer, jested with him on 
the nature of his freight. 

We had a shower or two, but light and flying. The air 
was clean and sweet among all these green fields and green 

15 things growing. There was not a touch of autumn in the 
weather. And when, at Vadencourt, we launched from a 
little lawn opposite a mill, the sun broke forth and set all 
the leaves shining in the valley of the Oise. 

The river was swollen with the long rains. From 

20 Vadencourt all the way to Origny, it ran with ever 
quickening speed, taking fresh heart at each mile, and rac- 
ing as though it already smelt the sea. The water was 
yellow and turbulent, swung with an angry eddy among 
half-submerged willows, and made an angry clatter along 

25 stony shores. The course kept turning and turning in a 

narrow and well-timbered valley. Now, the river would 

approach the side, and run gliding along the chalky base of 

the hill, and show us a few open colza fields among the 

60 



The Oise in Flood 61 

trees. Now, it would skirt the garden-walls of houses, 
where we might catch a glimpse through a doorway, and 
see a priest pacing in the checkered sunlight. Again, the 
foliage closed so thickly in front, that there seemed to be 
no issue; only a thicket of willows, overtopped by elms and 5 
poplars, under which the river ran flush and fleet, and 
where a kingfisher flew past like a piece of the blue sky. 
On these different manifestations, the sun poured its clear 
and catholic looks. The shadows lay as solid on the swift 
surface of the stream as on the stable meadows. The 10 
light sparkled golden in the dancing poplar leaves, and 
brought the hills into communion with our eyes. And all 
the while the river never stopped running or took breath ; 
and the reeds along the whole valley stood shivering from 
top to toe. 15 

There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it 
not) founded on the shivering of the reeds. There are 
not many things in nature more striking to man's eye. 
It is such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and to see 
such a number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in 20 
every nook along the shore, is enough to infect a silly 
human with alarm. Perhaps they are only a-cold, and 
no wonder, standing waist deep in the stream. Or per- 
haps they have never got accustomed to the speed and 
fury of the river's flux, or the miracle of its continuous 25 
body. Pan once played upon their forefathers ; and so, 
by the hands of his river, he still plays upon these later 
generations down all the valley of the Oise ; and plays the 
same air, both sweet and shrill, to tell us of the beauty 
and the terror of the world. 30 

The canoe was like a leaf in the current. It took it 
up and shook it, and carried it masterfully away, like 
a Centaur carrying off a nymph. To keep some command 
on our direction required hard and diligent plying of the 



62 An Inland Voyage 

paddle. The river was in such a hurry for the sea! 
Every drop of water ran in a panic, like as many people 
in a frightened crowd. But what crowd was ever so 
numerous, or so single-minded? All the objects of sight 
5 went by at a dance measure ; the eyesight raced with the 
racing river; the exigencies of every moment kept the pegs 
screwed so tight, that our being quivered like a well-tuned 
instrument; and the blood shook off its lethargy, and 
trotted through all the highways and byways of the veins 

10 and arteries, and in and out of the heart, as if circulation 
were but a holiday journey, and not the daily moil of 
threescore years and ten. The reeds might nod their heads 
in warning, and with tremendous gestures tell how the 
river was as cruel as it was strong and cold, and how 

15 death lurked in the eddy underneath the willows. But 
the reeds had to stand where they were; and those who 
stand still are always timid advisers. As for us, we could 
have shouted aloud. If this lively and beautiful river 
were, indeed, a thing of death's contrivance, the old 

20 ashen rogue had famously outwitted himself with us. I 

was living three to the minute. I was scoring points 

against him every stroke of my paddle, every turn of the 

stream. I have rarely had better profit of my life. 

For I think we may look upon our little private war 

25 with death somewhat in this light. If a man knows he 
will sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will have 
a bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his 
extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves. And 
above all, where, instead of simply spending, he makes a 

30 profitable investment for some of his money, when it 
will be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk living, 
and above all when it is healthful, is just so much gained 
upon the wholesale filcher, death. We shall have the 
less in our pockets, the more in our stomach, when he 



The Oise in Flood 63 

cries, Stand and deliver. A swift stream is a favorite 
artifice of his, and one that brings him in a comfortable 
thing per annum; but when he and I come to settle our 
accounts, I shall whistle in his face for these hours upon 
the upper Oise. 5 

Towards afternoon we got fairly drunken w T ith the sun- 
shine and the exhilaration of the pace. We could no 
longer contain ourselves and our content. The canoes 
were too small for us; we must be out and stretch our- 
selves on shore. And so in a green meadow w 7 e bestowed 10 
our limbs on the grass, and smoked deifying tobacco and 
proclaimed the world excellent. It was the last good 
hour of the day, and I dwell upon it with extreme compla- 
cency. 

On one side of the valley, high upon the chalky summit 15 
of the hill, a plowman with his team appeared and dis- 
appeared at regular intervals. At each revelation he 
stood still for a few seconds against the sky: for all the 
world (as the Cigarette declared) like a toy Burns who 
had just plowed up the Mountain Daisy. He was the only 20 
living thing within view, unless we are to count the river. 

On the other side of the valley a group of red roofs and 
a belfry showed among the foliage. Thence some inspired 
bell-ringer made the afternoon musical on a chime of 
bells. There was something very sweet and taking in the 25 
air he played; and we thought we had never heard bells 
speak so intelligibly, or sing so melodiously, as these. It 
must have been to some such measure that the spinners 
and the young maids sang, " Come away, Death," in the 
Shakespearian Illyria. There is so often a threatening 30 
note, something blatant and metallic, in the voice of 
bells, that I believe we have fully more pain than pleasure 
from hearing them; but these, as they sounded abroad, 
now high, now low, now with a plaintive cadence that 



64 An Inland Voyage 

caught the ear like the burthen of a popular song, were 
always moderate and tunable, and seemed to fall in with 
the spirit of still, rustic places, like the noise of a waterfall 
or the babble of a rookery in spring. I could have asked 
5 the bell-ringer for his blessing, good, sedate old man, who 
swung the rope so gently to the time of his meditations. I 
could have blessed the priest or the heritors, or whoever 
may be concerned with such affairs in France, who had 
left these sweet old bells to gladden the afternoon, and 

10 not held meetings, and made collections, and had their 
names repeatedly printed in the local paper, to rig up a peal 
of brand-new, brazen, Birmingham-hearted substitutes, who 
should bombard their sides to the provocation of a brand- 
new bell-ringer, and fill the echoes of the valley with 

15 terror and riot. 

At last the bells ceased, and with their note the sun 
withdrew. The piece was at an end ; shadow and silence 
possessed the valley of the Oise. We took to the paddle 
with glad hearts, like people who have sat out a noble 

20 performance, and return to work. The river was more 
dangerous here; it ran swifter, the eddies were more sud- 
den and violent. All the way down we had had our fill of 
difficulties. Sometimes it was a weir which could be shot, 
sometimes one so shallow and full of stakes that we must 

25 withdraw the boats from the water and carry them round. 
But the chief sort of obstacle was a consequence of the late 
high winds. Every two or three hundred yards a tree 
had fallen across the river and usually involved more than 
another in its fall. Often there was free water at the end, 

30 and we could steer round the leafy promontory and hear 
the water sucking and bubbling among the twigs. Often, 
again, when the tree reached from bank to bank, there 
was room, by lying close, to shoot through underneath, 
canoe and all. Sometimes it was necessary to get out 



The Oise in Flood 65 

upon the trunk itself and pull the boats across; and some- 
times, where the stream was too impetuous for this, there 
was nothing for it but to land and " carry over." This 
made a fine series of accidents in the day's career, and 
kept us aware of ourselves. 5 

Shortly after our reembarkation, while I was leading 
by a long way, and still full of a noble, exulting spirit in 
honor of the sun, the swift pace, and the church bells, the 
river made one of its leonine pounces round a corner, and 
I was aware of another fallen tree within a stone-cast. I 10 
had my backboard down in a trice, and aimed for a place 
where the trunk seemed high enough above the water, 
and the branches not too thick to let me slip below. When 
a man has just vowed eternal brotherhood with the uni- 
verse, he is not in a temper to take great determinations 15 
coolly, and this, which might have been a very important 
determination for me, had not been taken under a happy 
star. The tree caught me about the chest, and while I 
was yet struggling to make less of nryself and get through, 
the river took the matter out of my hands, and bereaved 20 
me of my boat. The Arethusa swung round broadside on, 
leaned over, ejected so much of me as still remained on 
board, and thus disencumbered, whipped under the tree, 
righted, and went merrily away down stream. 

I do not know how long it was before I scrambled on to 25 
the tree to which I was left clinging, but it was longer than 
I cared about. My thoughts were of a grave and almost 
somber character, but I still clung to my paddle. The 
stream ran away with my heels as fast as I could pull up 
my shoulders, and I seemed, by the weight, to have all the 3c 
water of the Oise in my trouser pockets. You can never 
know, till you try it, what a dead pull a river makes 
against a man. Death himself had me by the heels, for this 
was his last ambuscado, and he must now join personally 



66 An Inland Voyage 

in the fray. And still I held to my paddle. At last I 
dragged myself on to my stomach on the trunk, and lay 
there a breathless sop, with a mingled sense of humor 
and injustice. A poor figure I must have presented to 
5 Burns upon the hill-top with his team. But there was the 
paddle in my hand. On my tomb, if ever I have one, I 
mean to get these words inscribed: "He clung to his 
paddle." 

The Cigarette had gone past a w T hile before; for, as I 

10 might have observed, if I had been a little less pleased with 
the universe at the moment, there was a clear way round 
the tree-top at the farther side. He had offered his 
services to haul me out, but as I was then already on my 
elbows, I had declined, and sent him down stream after 

15 the truant Arethusa. The stream was too rapid for a man 
to mount with one canoe, let alone two, upon his hands. 
So I crawled along the trunk to shore, and proceeded down 
the meadows by the riverside. I was so cold that my 
heart was sore. I had now an idea of my own, why the 

20 reeds so bitterly shivered. I could have given any of 
them a lesson. The Cigarette remarked facetiously, that 
he thought I was " taking exercise " as I drew near, until 
he made out for certain that I was only twittering with 
cold. I had a rub down with a towel, and donned a dry 

25 suit from the india-rubber bag. But I was not my own 
man again for the rest of the voyage. I had a queasy 
sense that I wore my last dry clothes upon my body. 
The struggle had tired me ; and perhaps, whether I knew 
it or not, I was a little dashed in spirit. The devouring 

30 element in the universe had leaped out against me, in this 
green valley quickened by a running stream. The bells 
were all very pretty in their way, but I had heard some 
of the hollow notes of Pan's music. Would the wicked 
river drag me down by the heels, indeed ? and look so beau- 



The Oise in Flood 67 

tiful all the time? Nature's good humor was only skin 
deep after all. 

There was still a long way to go by the winding course 
of the stream, and darkness had fallen, and a late bell 
was ringing in Origny Sainte-Benoite, when we arrived. 5 



ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE: A BY-DAY 

The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had 
little rest; indeed I do not think I remember anywhere 
else so great a choice of services as were here offered to 
the devout. And while the bells made merry in the sun- 
5 shine, all the world with his dog was out shooting among 
the beets and colza. 

In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the 
street at a foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable 
music " O France, mes amours." It brought everybody 

10 to the door ; and when our landlady called in the man to 
buy the words, he had not a copy of them left. She was 
not the first nor the second who had been taken with the 
song. There is something very pathetic in the love of the 
French people, since the war, for dismal patriotic music- 

15 making. I have watched a forester from Alsace while 
some one was singing " Les malheurs de la France" at a 
baptismal party in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau. 
He arose from the table and took his son aside, close by 
where I was standing. " Listen, listen," he said, bearing 

20 on the boy's shoulder, " and remember this, my son." 
A little after he went out into the garden suddenly, and I 
could hear him sobbing in the darkness. 

The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace and 
Lorraine, made a sore pull on the endurance of this sensi- 

25 tive people ; and their hearts are still hot, not so much 
against Germany as against the Empire. In what other 
country will you find a patriotic ditty bring all the world 
into the street? But affliction heightens love; and we 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : a By-day 69 

shall never know we are Englishmen until we have lost 
India. Independent America is still the cross of my ex- 
istence; I cannot think of Farmer George without abhor- 
rence; and I never feel more warmly to my own land 
than when I see the stars and stripes, and remember 5 
what our empire might have been. 

The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a 
curious mixture. Side by side with the flippant, rowdy 
nonsense of the Paris music-halls, there were many pas- 
toral pieces, not without a touch of poetry, I thought, 10 
and instinct with the brave independence of the poorer 
class in France. There you might read how the wood- 
cutter gloried in his ax, and the gardener scorned to be 
ashamed of his spade. It was not very well written, this 
poetry of labor, but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed 15 
what was weak or wordy in the expression. The martial 
and the patriotic pieces, on the other hand, were tearful, 
w T omanish productions one and all. The poet had passed 
under the Caudine Forks; he sang for an army visiting 
the tomb of its old renown, with arms reversed ; and sang 20 
not of victory, but of death. There was a number in the 
hawker's collection called Consents Francms, which may 
rank among the most dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It 
would not be possible to fight at all in such a spirit. 
The bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty 25 
were struck up beside him on the morning of battle ; 
and whole regiments would pile their arms to its 
tune. 

If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influence 
of national songs, you w T ould say France was come to a 30 
poor pass. But the thing will work to its own cure, and 
a sound-hearted and courageous people weary at length of 
sniveling over their disasters. Already Paul Deroulede 
has written some manly military verses. There is not 



70 An Inland Voyage 

much of the trumpet note in them, perhaps, to stir a man's 
heart in his bosom; they lack the lyrical elation, and 
move slowly; but they are written in a grave, honor- 
able, stoical spirit, which should carry soldiers far in 
5 a good cause. One feels as if one would like to trust 
Deroulede with something. It will be happy if he can so 
far inoculate his fellow-countrymen that they may be 
trusted with their own future. And in the meantime, 
here is an antidote to " French Conscripts " and much 

10 other doleful versification. 

We had left the boats over-night in the custody of one 
whom we shall call Carnival. I did not properly catch his 
name, and perhaps that was not unfortunate for him, 
as I am not in a position to hand him down with honor 

15 to posterity. To this person's premises we strolled in the 
course of the day, and found quite a little deputation in- 
specting the canoes. There was a stout gentleman with a 
knowledge of the river, which he seemed eager to impart. 
There was a very elegant young gentleman in a black coat, 

20 with a smattering of English, who led the talk at once to 
the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race. And then there 
were three handsome girls from fifteen to twenty; and an 
old gentleman in a blouse, with no teeth to speak of, and 
a strong country accent. Quite the pick of Origny, I 

25 should suppose. 

The Cigarette had some mysteries to, perform with his 
rigging in the coach-house ; so I was left to do the parade 
single-handed. I found myself very much of a hero 
whether I would or not. The girls were full of little 

30 shudderings over the dangers of our journey. And I 
thought it would be ungallant not to take my cue from the 
ladies. My mishap of yesterday, told in an off-hand way, 
produced a deep sensation. It was Othello over again, 
with no less than three Desdemonas and a sprinkling of 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : a By-day 71 

sympathetic senators in the background. Never were the 
canoes more flattered, or flattered more adroitly. 

" It is like a violin," cried one of the girls in an ecstasy. 

" I thank you for the word, mademoiselle," said I. 
"All the more since there are people who call out to me, 5 
that it is like a coffin." 

"O! but it is really like a violin. It is finished like a 
violin," she went on. 

"And polished like a violin," added a senator, 

" One has only to stretch the cords," concluded another, 10 
" and then tum-tumty-tum " — he imitated the result with 
spirit. 

Was not this a graceful little ovation? Where this 
people finds the secret of its pretty speeches, I cannot 
imagine; unless the secret should be no other than a sincere 15 
desire to please? But then no disgrace is attached in 
France to saying a thing neatly; whereas in England, to 
talk like a book is to give in one's resignation to society. 

The old gentleman in the blouse stole into the coach- 
house, and somewhat irrelevantly informed the Cigarette 20 
that he was the father of the three girls and four more: 
quite an exploit for a Frenchman. 

"You are very fortunate," answered the Cigarette 
politely. 

And the old gentleman, having apparently gained his 25 
point, stole away again. 

We all got very friendly together. The girls proposed 
to start with us on the morrow, if you please! And jest- 
ing apart, every one was anxious to know the hour of our 
departure. Now, when you are going to crawl into your 30 
canoe from a bad launch, a crowd, however friendly, is 
undesirable ; and so we told them not before twelve, and 
mentally determined to be off by ten at latest. 

Towards evening, w T e went abroad again to post some 



72 An Inland Voyage 

letters. It was cool and pleasant; the long village was 
quite empty, except for one or two urchins who followed 
us as they might have followed a menagerie ; the hills and 
the tree-tops looked in from all sides through the clear 

5 air ; and the bells were chiming for yet another service. 

Suddenly, we sighted the three girls standing, with a 

fourth sister, in front of a shop on the wide selvage of the 

roadway. We had been very merry with them a little 

while ago, to be sure. But what was the etiquette of 

10 Origny? Had it been a country road, of course we should 
have spoken to them; but here, under the eyes of all the 
gossips, ought we to do even as much as bow? I con- 
sulted the Cigarette. 
" Look," said he. 

15 I looked. There were the four girls on the same spot; 
but now four backs were turned to us, very upright and 
conscious. Corporal Modesty had given the word of 
command, and the well-disciplined picket had gone right- 
about face like a single person. They maintained this 

20 formation all the while we were in sight ; but we heard 
them tittering among themselves, and the girl whom we 
had not met, laughed with open mouth, and even looked 
over her shoulder at the enemy. I wonder was it alto- 
gether modesty after all? or in part a sort of country 

25 provocation? 

As we were returning to the inn, we beheld something 
floating in the ample field of golden evening sky, above 
the chalk cliffs and the trees that grow along their summit. 
It was too high up, too large and too steady for a kite; 

30 and as it was dark it could not be a star. For although a 
star were as black as ink and as rugged as a walnut, so 
amply does the sun bathe heaven with radiance, that it 
would sparkle like a point of light for us. The village was 
dotted with people with their heads in air; and the chil- 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : a By-day 73 

dren were in a bustle all along the street and far up the 
straight road that climbs the hill, where we could still see 
them running in loose knots. It was a balloon, we learned, 
which had left Saint Quentin at half-past five that even- 
ing. Mighty composedly the majority of the grown people 5 
took it. But we were English, and were soon running up 
the hill with the best. Being travelers ourselves in a small 
way, we would fain have seen the other travelers alight. 

The spectacle was over by the time we gained the top of 
the hill. All the gold had withered out of the sky, and 10 
the balloon had disappeared. Whither? I ask myself; 
caught up into the seventh heaven? or come safely to 
land somewhere in the blue uneven distance, into which 
the roadway dipped and melted before our eyes? Prob- 
ably the aeronauts were already warming themselves at a 15 
farm chimney, for they say it is cold in these unhomely 
regions of the air. The night fell swiftly. Roadside trees 
and disappointed sightseers, returning through the mead- 
ows, stood out in black against a margin of low red sun- 
set. It was cheerfuller to face the other way, and so down 20 
the hill we went, with a full moon, the color of a melon, 
swinging high above the wooded valley, and the white 
cliffs behind us faintly reddened by the fire of the chalk 
kilns. 

The lamps w T ere lighted, and the salads were being made 25 
in Origny Sainte-Benoite by the river. 



ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE: THE COMPANY 
AT TABLE 

Although we came late for dinner, the company at 
table treated us to sparkling wine. " That is how we are 
in France," said one. " Those who sit down with us are 
our friends." And the rest applauded. 
5 They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass the 
Sunday with. 

Two of them w T ere guests like ourselves, both men of 
the north. One ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with 
copious black hair and beard, the intrepid hunter of 

10 France, who thought nothing so small, not even a lark or 
a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by its 
capture. For such a great, healthy man, his hair flourish- 
ing like Samson's, his arteries running buckets of red 
blood, to boast of these infinitesimal exploits, produced a 

15 feeling of disproportion in the world, as when a steam- 
hammer is set to cracking nuts. The other w T as a quiet, 
subdued person, blond and Emphatic and sad, with some- 
thing the look of a Dane: " Tristes tetes de Danois!" as 
Gaston Lafenestre used to say. 

20 I must not let that name go by without a word for the 
best of all good fellows now gone down into the dust. We 
shall never again see Gaston in his forest costume — he 
was Gaston with all the world, in affection, not in disre- 
spect — nor hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau 

25 with the woodland horn. Never again shall his kind smile 
put peace among all races of artistic men, and make the 
Englishman at home in France. Never more shall the 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : the Company at Table 75 

sheep, who were not more innocent at heart than he, sit all 
unconsciously for his industrious pencil. He died too 
early, at the very moment when he was beginning to put 
forth fresh sprouts, and blossom into something worthy of 
himself ; and yet none who knew him will think he lived in 5 
vain. I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had so 
much affection; and I find it a good test of others, how 
much they had learned to understand and value him. 
His was indeed a good influence in life while he was still 
among us ; he had a fresh laugh, it did you good to see him ; 10 
and however sad he may have been at heart, he always 
bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took fortune's 
worst as it were the showers of spring. But now his mo- 
ther sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where 
he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth. 15 

Many of his pictures found their way across the chan- 
nel: besides those which were stolen, when a dastardly 
Yankee left him alone in London with two English pence, 
and perhaps twice as many words of English. If any one 
who reads these lines should have a scene of sheep, in the 20 
manner of Jacques, with this fine creature's signature, let 
him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravest of men 
has lent a hand to decorate his lodging. There may be 
better pictures in the National Gallery, but not a painter 
among the generations had a better heart. Precious 25 
in the sight of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell 
us, is the death of his saints. It had need to be precious; 
for it is very costly, when by the stroke, a mother is left 
desolate, and the peace-maker, and peace-looker, of a 
whole society is laid in the ground with Csesar and the 30 
Twelve Apostles. 

There is something lacking among the oaks of Fontaine- 
bleau; and when the dessert comes in at Barbizon, people 
look to the door for a figure that is gone. 



7 6 An Inland Voyage 

The third of our companions at Origny was no less a 
person than the landlady's husband : not properly the land- 
lord, since he worked himself in a factory during the 
day, and came to his own house at evening as a guest: 
5 a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual excitement, 
with baldish head, sharp features, and swift, shining eyes. 
On Saturday, describing some paltry adventure at a duck- 
hunt, he broke a plate into a score of fragments. When- 
ever he made a remark, he would look all round the table, 

io with his chin raised, and a spark of green light in either 
eye, seeking approval. His wife appeared now and again 
in the doorway of the room, where she was superintending 
dinner, with a " Henri, you forget } r ourself," or a " Henri, 
you can surely talk without making such a noise." In- 

15 deed, that was what the honest fellow could not do. On 
the most trifling matter, his eyes kindled, his fist visited 
the table, and his voice rolled abroad in changeful thun- 
der. I never saw such a petard of a man ; I think the devil 
was in him. He had two favorite expressions: "It is 

20 logical," or illogical as the case might be: and this other, 
thrown out with a certain bravado, as a man might hurl 
a banner, at the beginning of many a long and sonorous 
story: "I am a proletarian, you see." Indeed, we saw it 
very well. God forbid, that ever I should find him 

25 handling a gun in Paris streets. That will not be a good 
moment for the general public. 

I thought his two phrases very much represented the 
good and evil of his class, and to some extent of his coun- 
try. It is a strong thing to say what one is, and not be 

30 ashamed of it ; even although it be in doubtful taste to 
repeat the statement too often in one evening. I should 
not admire it in a duke, of course; but as times go, the 
trait is honorable in a workman. On the other hand, it 
is not at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic; 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : the Company at Table 77 

and our own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. 
We never know where we are to end, if once we begin 
following words or doctors. There is an upright stock in 
a man's own heart, that is trustier than any syllogism ; and 
the eyes, and the sjTnpathies, and appetites know a thing or 5 
two that have never yet been stated in controversy. Rea- 
sons are as plentiful as blackberries ; and like fisticuffs, they 
serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do not stand 
or fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as 
they are cleverly put. An able controversialist no more 10 
than an able general demonstrates the justice of his cause. 
But France is all gone wandering after one or tw T o big 
words; it will take some time before they can be satisfied 
that they are no more than words, however big; and when 
once that is done, they will perhaps find logic less 15 
diverting. 

The conversation opened with details of the day's 
shooting. When all the sportsmen of a village shoot over 
the village territory pro indiv'iso, it is plain that many 
questions of etiquette and priority must arise. 20 

" Here now," cried the landlord, brandishing a plate, 
" here is a field of beet-root. Well. Here am I then. 
I advance, do I not? Eh bien! sacristi" and the state- 
ment, waxing louder, rolls off into a reverberation of 
oaths, the speaker glaring about for sympathy, and every- 25 
body nodding his head to him in the name of 
peace. 

The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess 
in keeping order: notably one of a Marquis. 

" Marquis," I said, " if you take another step I fire upon 30 
you. You have committed a dirtiness, Marquis." 

Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap 
and withdrew. 

The landlord applauded noisily. "It was. well done," 



78 An Inland Voyage 

he said. " He did all that he could. He admitted he was 
wrong." And then oath upon oath. He was no marquis- 
lover either, but he had a sense of justice in him, this 
proletarian host of ours. 

5 From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a 
general comparison of Paris and the country. The pro- 
letarian beat the table like a drum in praise of Paris. 
" What is Paris? Paris is the cream of France. There are 
no Parisians: it is you and I and everybody who are 

10 Parisians. A man has eighty chances per cent, to get 
on in the world in Paris." And he drew a vivid sketch of 
the workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making 
articles that were to go all over the world. " Eh bien, 
quoi, c'est magnifique, cat" cried he. 

15 The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's 
life; he thought Paris bad for men and women. "Cen- 
tralization," said he — 

But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It was 
all logical, he showed him; and all magnificent. "What 

20 a spectacle! What a glance for an eye! " And the dishes 
reeled upon the table under a cannonade of blows. 

Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of 
the liberty of opinion in France. I could hardly have shot 
more amiss. There was an instant silence, and a great 

25 wagging of significant heads. They did not fancy the 
subject, it was plain; but they gave me to understand 
that the sad Northman was a martyr on account of 
his views. "Ask him a bit," said they. "Just ask 
him." 

30 "Yes, sir," said he in his quiet way, answering me, 
although I had not spoken, " I am afraid there is less 
liberty of opinion in France than you may imagine." 
And with that he dropped his eyes, and seemed to consider 
the subject at an end. 



Origny Sainte-Benoite : the Company at Table 79 

Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or 
why, or when, was this lymphatic bagman martyred? 
We concluded at once it was on some religious question, 
and brushed up our memories of the Inquisition, which 
were principally drawn from Poe's horrid story, and the 5 
sermon in Tristram Shandy, I believe. 

On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further 
into the question ; for when we rose very early to avoid a 
sympathizing deputation at our departure, we found the 
hero up before us. He was breaking his fast on white 10 
wine and raw onions, in order to keep up the character of 
martyr, I conclude. We had a long conversation, and 
made out what we wanted in spite of his reserve. But 
here was a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible 
for two Scotchmen and a Frenchman to discuss during 15 
a long half hour, and each nationality have a different 
idea in view throughout. It was not till the very end that 
we discovered his heresy had been political, or that he 
suspected our mistake. The terms and spirit in which he 
spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes, suited to 20 
religious beliefs. And vice versa. 

Nothing could be more characteristic of the two coun- 
tries. Politics are the religion of France ; as Nanty Ewart 

would have said, " A d d bad religion " ; while we, 

at home, keep most of our bitterness for little differ- 25 
ences about a hymn-book, or a Hebrew word which, per- 
haps, neither of the parties can translate. And perhaps 
the misconception is typical of many others that may never 
be cleared up: not only between people of different race, 
but between those of different sex. 30 

As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist, or 
perhaps only a Communard, which is a very different 
thing; and had lost one or more situations in conse- 
quence. I think he had also been rejected in marriage; 



8o An Inland Voyage 

but perhaps he had a sentimental way of consider- 
ing business which deceived me. He was a mild, gen- 
tle creature, anyway; and I hope he has got a better 
situation, and married a more suitable wife since 
5 then. 



DOWN THE OISE: TO MOY 

Carnival notoriously cheated us at first. Finding us 
easy in our ways, he regretted having let us off so cheaply ; 
and taking me aside, told me a cock-and-bull story 
with the moral of another five francs for the narrator. 
The thing was palpably absurd ; but I paid up, and at once 5 
dropped all friendliness of manner, and kept him in his 
place as an inferior with freezing British dignity. He saw 
in a moment that he had gone too far, and killed a willing 
horse ; his face fell ; I am sure he would have refunded if 
he could only have thought of a decent pretext. He wished 10 
me to drink with him, but I would none of his drinks. 
He grew pathetically tender in his professions; but I 
walked beside him in silence or answered him in stately 
courtesies; and when we got to the landing-place, passed 
the word in English slang to the Cigarette. 15 

In spite of the false scent we had thrown out the day 
before, there must have been fifty people about the bridge. 
We were as pleasant as we could be with all but Carnival. 
We said good-by, shaking hands with the old gentleman 
who knew the river and the 3/oung gentleman who had a 20 
smattering of English; but never a word for Carnival. 
Poor Carnival, here was a humiliation. He who had been 
so much identified with the canoes, who had given orders 
in our name, who had shown off the boats and even the 
boatmen like a private exhibition of his own, to be now so 25 
publicly shamed by the lions of his caravan ! I never saw 
anybody look more crest-fallen than he. He hung in the 
81 



82 An Inland Voyage 

background, coming timidly forward ever and again as 
he thought he saw some symptom of a relenting humor, 
and falling hurriedly back when he encountered a cold 
stare. Let us hope it will be a lesson to him. 
5 I would not have mentioned Carnival's peccadillo had 
not the thing been so uncommon in France. This, for 
instance, was the only case of dishonesty or even sharp 
practice in our whole voyage. We talk very much about 
our honesty in England. It is a good rule to be on your 

10 guard wherever you hear great professions about a very 
little piece of virtue. If the English could only hear 
how they are spoken of abroad, they might confine 
themselves for a while to remedying the fact; and per- 
haps even when that was done, give us fewer of their 

15 airs. 

The young ladies, the graces of Origny, were not present 
at our start, but when we got round to the second bridge, 
behold it was black with sight-seers! We were loudly 
cheered, and for a good way below, young lads and lasses 

20 ran along the bank still cheering. What with current and 
paddling, we were flashing along like swallows. It was 
no joke to keep up with us upon the woody shore. But the 
girls picked up their skirts, as if they were sure they had 
good ankles, and followed until their breath was out. 

25 The last to weary were the three graces and a couple of 
companions; and just as they too had had enough, the 
foremost of the three leaped upon a tree stump and kissed 
her hand to the canoeists. Not Diana herself, although 
this was more of a Venus after all, could have done a 

30 graceful thing more gracefully. " Come back again ! " she 
cried; and all the others echoed her; and the hills about 
Origny repeated the words, " Come back." But the river 
had us round an angle in a twinkling, and we were alone 
with the green trees and running water. 



Down the Oise : to Moy 83 

Come back? There is no coming back, young ladies, 
on the impetuous stream of life. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, 
The plowman from the sun his season takes. 

And we must all set our pocket watches by the clock of 5 
fate. There is a headlong, forthright tide, that bears 
away man with his fancies like a straw, and runs fast in 
time and space. It is full of curves like this, your winding 
river of the Oise; and lingers and returns in pleasant 
pastorals; and yet, rightly thought upon, never returns 10 
at all. For though it should revisit the same acre of 
meadow in the same hour, it will have made an ample 
sweep betweenwhiles ; many little streams will have fallen 
in ; many exhalations risen towards the sun ; and even 
although it were the same acre, it will no more be the same 15 
river of Oise. And thus, O graces of Origny, although the 
wandering fortune of my life should carry me back again 
to where you await death's whistle by the river, that will 
not be the old I who walks the street; and those wives 
and mothers, say, will those be you? 20 

There was never any mistake about the Oise, as a mat- 
ter of fact. In these upper reaches, it was still in a pro- 
digious hurry for the sea. It ran so fast and merrily, 
through all the windings of its channel, that I strained my 
thumb, fighting with the rapids, and had to paddle all the 25 
rest of the way w^ith one hand turned up. Sometimes, 
it had to serve mills; and being still a little river, ran very 
dry and shallow in the meanwhile. We had to put our 
legs out of the boat, and shove ourselves off the sand of 
the bottom with our feet. And still it went on its way 30 
singing among the poplars, and making a green valley in 
the world. After a good woman, and a good book, and 
tobacco, there is nothing so agreeable on earth as a river. 



84 An Inland Voyage 

I forgave it its attempt on my life; which was after all 
one part owing to the unruly winds of heaven that had 
blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanagement, 
and only a third part to the river itself, and that not out 
5 of malice, but from its great pre-occupation over its busi- 
ness of getting to the sea. A difficult business, too; for 
the detours it had to make are not to be counted. The 
geographers seem to have given up the attempt; for I 
found no map represent the infinite contortion of its 

10 course. A fact will say more than any of them. After 
we had been some hours, three if I mistake not, flitting by 
the trees at this smooth, breakneck gallop, when we came 
upon a hamlet and asked where we were, we had got no 
farther than four kilometers (say two miles and a half) 

15 from Origny. If it were not for the honor of the thing 
(in the Scotch saying), we might almost as well have been 
standing still. 

We lunched on a meadow inside a parallelogram of 
poplars. The leaves danced and prattled in the wind all 

20 round about us. The river hurried on meanwhile, and 
seemed to chide at our delay. Little we cared. The 
river knew where it was going; not so we: the less our 
hurry, where we found good quarters and a pleasant 
theater for a pipe. At that hour, stockbrokers were shout- 

25 ing in Paris Bourse for two or three per cent. ; but we 
minded them as little as the sliding stream, and sacrificed 
a hecatomb of minutes to the gods of tobacco and digestion. 
Hurry is the resource of the faithless. Where a man can 
trust his own heart, and those of his friends, to-morrow is 

30 as good as to-day. And if he die in the meanwhile, why, 
then, there he dies, and the question is solved. 

We had to take to the canal in the course of the after- 
noon ; because, where it crossed the river, there was, not a 
bridge, but a siphon. If it had not been for an excited 



Down the Oise : to Moy 85 

fellow on the bank, we should have paddled right into the 
siphon, and thenceforward not paddled any more. We 
met a man, a gentleman, on the tow-path, who was much 
interested in our cruise. And I was witness to a strange 
seizure of lying suffered by the Cigarette: who, because 5 
his knife came from Norway, narrated all sorts of adven- 
tures in that country, where he has never been. He was 
quite feverish at the end, and pleaded demoniacal pos- 
session. 

Moy (pronounced Moy) was a pleasant little village, 10 
gathered round a chateau in a moat. The air was per- 
fumed with hemp from neighboring fields. At the Golden 
Sheep, we found excellent entertainment. German shells 
from the siege of La Fere, Nurnberg figures, gold-fish in 
a bowl, and all manner of knick-knacks, embellished the 15 
public room. The landlady was a stout, plain, short- 
sighted, motherly body, with something not far short of 
a genius for cookery. She had a guess of her excellence 
herself. After every dish was sent in, she would cQme and 
look on at the dinner for a while, with puckered, blinking 20 
eyes. " C J est bon, nest-ce pas?" she would say; and when 
she had received a proper answer, she disappeared into the 
kitchen. That common French dish, partridge and cab- 
bages, became a new thing in my eyes at the Golden Sheep ; 
and many subsequent dinners have bitterly disappointed 25 
me in consequence. Sweet was our rest in the Golden 
Sheep at Moy. 



LA FERE OF CURSED MEMORY 

We lingered in Moy a good part of the day, for we were 
fond of being philosophical, and scorned long journeys and 
early starts on principle. The place, moreover, invited 
to repose. People in elaborate shooting costumes sallied 

5 from the chateau with guns and game-bags; and this was 
a pleasure in itself, to remain behind while these elegant 
pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning. In this 
way, all the world may be an aristocrat, and play the 
duke among marquises, and the reigning monarch among 

10 dukes, if he will only outvie them in tranquillity. An im- 
perturbable demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet 
minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in 
fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a 
clock during a thunderstorm. 

15 We made a very short day of it to La Fere ; but the dusk 
was falling, and a small rain had begun before we stowed 
the boats. La Fere is a fortified town in a plain, and has 
two belts of rampart. Between the first and the second, 
extends a region of waste land and cultivated patches. 

20 Here and there along the wayside were posters forbidding 
trespass in the name of military engineering. At last, 
a second gateway admitted us to the town itself. Lighted 
windows looked gladsome, whiffs of comfortable cookery 
came abroad upon the air. The town was full of the 

25 military reserve, out for the French Autumn manoeuvers, 
and the reservists walked speedily and wore their formi- 
dable great-coats. It was a fine night to be within doors 
over dinner, and hear the rain upon the windows. 



La Fere of Cursed Memory 87 

The Cigarette and I could not sufficiently congratulate 
each other on the prospect, for we had been told there was 
a capital inn at La Fere. Such a dinner as we were going 
to eat! such beds as we were to sleep in! — and all the 
while the rain raining on houseless folk over all the pop- 5 
lared countryside! It made our mouths water. The 
inn bore the name of some woodland animal, stag, or hart, 
or hind, I forget which. But I shall never forget how 
spacious and how eminently habitable it looked as we drew 
near. The carriage entry was lighted up, not by intention, 10 
but from the mere superfluity of fire and candle in the 
house. A rattle of many dishes came to our ears; we 
sighted a great field of tablecloth ; the kitchen glowed like 
a forge and smelt like a garden of things to eat. 

Into this, the inmost shrine, and physiological heart,* 15 
of a hostelry, with all its furnaces in action, and all its 
dressers charged with viands, you are now to suppose us 
making - our triumphal entry, a pair of damp rag-and- 
bone men, each with a limp india-rubber bag upon his 
arm. I do not believe I have a sound view of that kitchen ; 20 
I saw it through a sort of glory: but it seemed to me 
crowded with the snowy caps of cookmen, who all turned 
round from their saucepans and looked at us with surprise. 
There was no doubt about the landlady, however: there 
she was, heading her army, a flushed, angry woman, full of 25 
affairs. Her I asked politely — too politely, thinks the 
Cigarette — if we could have beds: she surveying us coldly 
from head to foot. 

"You will find beds in the suburb," she remarked. 
" We are too busy for the like of you." 30 

If we could make an entrance, change our clothes, and 
order a bottle of wine, I felt sure we could put things 
right; so said I: "If we cannot sleep, we may at least 
dine," — and was for depositing my bag. 



88 An Inland Voyage 

What a terrible convulsion of nature was that which 
followed in the landlady's face! She made a run at us, 
and stamped her foot. 

"Out with you — out of the door!" she screeched. 
5 " Sortezf sortez! sortez par la porte!" 

I do not know how it happened, but next moment we 
were out in the rain and darkness, and I was cursing before 
the carriage entry like a disappointed mendicant. Where 
were the boating men of Belgium? where the Judge and 

10 his good wines? and where the graces of Origny? Black, 
black was the night after the firelit kitchen ; but what was 
that to the blackness in our heart ? This was not the first 
time that I have been refused a lodging. Often and often 
have I planned what I should do if such a misadventure 

15 happened to me again. And nothing is easier to plan. 
But to put in execution, with the heart boiling at the 
indignity? Try it; try it only once; and tell me what 
you did. 

It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. 

20 Six hours of police surveillance (such as I have had), or 
one brutal rejection from an inn door, change your views 
upon the subject like a course of lectures. As long as you 
keep in the upper regions, with all the world bowing to 
you as you go, social arrangements have a very hand- 

25 some air ; but once get under the wheels, and you wish 
society were at the devil. I will give most respectable 
men a fortnight of such a life, and then I will offer them 
twopence for what remains of their morality. 

For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the 

30 Hind, or whatever it was, I would have set the temple of 
Diana on fire, if it had been handy. There was no crime 
complete enough to express my disapproval of human in- 
stitutions. As for the Cigarette, I never knew a man so 
altered. " We have been taken for pedlars again," said 



La Fere of Cursed Memory 89 

he. " Good God, what it must be to be a pedlar in 
reality!" He particularized a complaint for every joint 
in the landlady's body. Timon was a philanthropist 
alongside of him. And then, when he was at the top of 
his maledictory bent, he would suddenly break away and 5 
begin whimperingly to commiserate the poor. " I hope to 
God," he said, — and I trust the prayer was answered, — 
" that I shall never be uncivil to a pedlar." Was this the 
imperturbable Cigarette? This, this was he. O change 
beyond report, thought, or belief ! 10 

Meantime the heaven wept upon our heads; and the 
windows grew brighter as the night increased in darkness. 
We trudged in and out of La Fere streets ; we saw shops, 
and private houses where people were copiously dining; 
we saw stables where carters' nags had plenty of fodder 15 
and clean straw; we saw no end of reservists, who were 
very sorry for themselves this wet night, I doubt not, and 
yearned for their country homes; but had they not each 
man his place in La Fere barracks? And we, what had 
we? 20 

There seemed to be no other inn in the whole town. 
People gave us directions, which we followed as best we 
could, generally with the effect of bringing us out again 
upon the scene of our disgrace. We were very sad people 
indeed by the time we had gone all over La Fere ; and the 25 
Cigarette had already made up his mind to lie under a 
poplar and sup off a loaf of bread. But right at the other 
end, the house next the towngate was full of light and 
bustle. " Bazin, aubergiste, loge a pied," was the sign. 
"A la Croix de Malte. 3 ' There were we received. 30 

The room was full of noisy reservists drinking and 
smoking; and we were very glad indeed when the drums 
and bugles began to go about the streets, and one and 
all had to snatch shakoes and be off for the barracks. 



90 An Inland Voyage 

Bazin was a tall man, running to fat: soft-spoken, with 
delicate, gentle face. We asked him to share our wine; 
but he excused himself, having pledged reservists all day 
long. This was a very different type of the workman- 
5 innkeeper from the bawling disputatious fellow at Origny. 
He also loved Paris, where he had worked as a decorative 
painter in his youth. There were such opportunities for 
self-instruction there, he said. And if any one has read 
Zola's description of the workman's marriage party visit- 

10 ing the Louvre, they would do well to have heard Bazin 
by way of antidote. He had delighted in the museums in his 
youth. " One sees there little miracles of work," he said; 
" that is what makes a good workman; it kindles a spark." 
We asked him, how he managed in La Fere. " I am 

15 married," he said, " and I have my pretty children. But 

frankly, it is no life at all. From morning to night, I 

pledge a pack of good enough fellows who know nothing." 

It faired as the night went on, and the moon came out of 

the clouds. We sat in front of the door, talking softly 

20 with Bazin. At the guard-house opposite, the guard was 
being for ever turned out, as trains of field artillery kept 
clanking in out of the night, or patrols of horsemen trotted 
by in their cloaks. Madame Bazin came out after a while ; 
she was tired with her day's work, I suppose; and she 

25 nestled up to her husband and laid her head upon his 

breast. He had his arm about her and kept gently patting 

her on the shoulder. I think Bazin was right, and he was 

really married. Of how few people can the same be said ! 

Little did the Bazins know how much they served us. 

30 We were charged for candles, for food and drink, and for 
the beds we slept in. But there was nothing in the bill for 
the husband's pleasant talk; nor for the pretty spectacle 
of their married life. And there was yet another item 
uncharged. For these people's politeness really set us up 



La Fere of Cursed Memory 91 

again in our own esteem. We had a thirst for considera- 
tion ; the sense of insult was still hot in our spirits; and 
civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in the 
world. 

How little w T e pay our way in life! Although we have 5 
our purses continually in our hand the better part of 
service goes still unrewarded. But I like to fancy that a 
grateful spirit gives as good as it gets. Perhaps the Bazins 
knew how much I liked them? perhaps they, also, were 
healed of some slights by the thanks that I gave them in 10 



DOWN THE OISE: THROUGH THE GOLDEN 
VALLEY 

Below La Fere the river runs through a piece of open 
pastoral country; green, opulent, loved by breeders; called 
the Golden Valley. In wide sweeps, and with a swift 
and equable gallop, the ceaseless stream of water visits 
5 and makes green the fields. Kine, and horses, and little 
humorous donkeys, browse together in the meadows, and 
come down in troops to the riverside to drink. They make 
a strange feature in the landscape; above all when startled, 
and you see them galloping to and fro, with their incon- 

10 gruous forms and faces. It gives a feeling as of great, 
unfenced pampas, and the herds of wandering nations. 
There were hills in the distance upon either hand; and on 
one side, the river sometimes bordered on the wooded spurs 
of Coucy and St. Gobain. 

15 The artillery were practising at La Fere ; and soon the 
cannon of heaven joined in that loud play. Two conti- 
nents of cloud met and exchanged salvos overhead; while 
all round the horizon we could see sunshine and clear 
air upon the hills. What with the guns and the thunder, 

20 the herds were all frighted in the Golden Valley. We 
could see them tossing their heads, and running to and fro 
in timorous indecision; and when they had made up their 
minds, and the donkey followed the horse, and the cow 
was after the donkey, we could hear their hooves thunder- 

25 ing abroad over the meadows. It had a martial sound, 
like cavalry charges. And altogether, as far as the ears are 
concerned, we had a very rousing battle piece, performed 
for our amusement. 



Down the Oise : Through the Golden Valley 93 

At last, the guns and the thunder dropped off; the sun 
shone on the wet meadows; the air was scented with the 
breath of rejoicing trees and grass; and the river kept un- 
weariedly carrying us on at its best pace. There was a 
manufacturing district about Chauny; and after that the 5 
banks grew so high that they hid the adjacent country, and 
we could see nothing but clay sides, and one willow after 
another. Only, here and there, w T e passed by a village or 
a ferry, and some wondering child upon the bank would 
stare after us until we turned the corner. I dare say we 10 
continued to paddle in that child's dreams for many a 
night after. 

Sun and shower alternated like day and night, making 
the hours longer by their variety. When the showers 
were heavy I could feel each drop striking through my 15 
jersey to my warm skin; and the accumulation of small 
shocks put me nearly beside myself. I decided I should 
buy a mackintosh at Noyon. It is nothing to get wet; 
but the misery of these individual pricks of cold all over 
my body at the same instant of time, made me flail the 20 
water with my paddle like a madman. The Cigarette was 
greatly amused by these ebullitions. It gave him some- 
thing else to look at, besides clay banks and willows. 

All the time, the river stole away like a thief in straight 
places, or swung round corners with an eddy ; the willows 25 
nodded and were undermined all day long; the clay banks 
tumbled in ; the Oise, which had been so many centuries 
making the Golden Valley, seemed to have changed its 
fancy, and be bent upon* undoing its performance. What 
a number of things a river does, by simply following 30 
Gravity in the innocence of its heart! 



NOYON CATHEDRAL 

Noyon stands about a mile from the river, in a little 
plain surrounded by wooded hills, and entirely covers an 
eminence with its tile roofs, surmounted by a long, straight- 
backed cathedral with two stiff towers. As we got into 
5 the town, the tile roofs seemed to tumble uphill one upon 
another, in the oddest disorder; but for all their scram- 
bling, they did not attain above the knees of the cathedral, 
which stood, upright and solemn, over all. As the streets 
drew near to this presiding genius, through the market 

10 place under the Hotel de Ville, they grew emptier and 
more composed. Blank walls and shuttered windows 
were turned to the great edifice, and grass grew on the 
white causeway. " Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, 
for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." The 

15 Hotel du Nord, nevertheless, lights its secular tapers 
within a stone cast of the church; and we had the superb 
east-end before our eyes all morning from the window of 
our bed-room. I have seldom looked on the east-end of a 
church with more complete sympathy. As it flanges out in 

20 three wide terraces, and settles down broadly on the earth, 
it looks like the poop of some great old battleship. Hollow- 
backed buttresses carry vases, which figure for the stern 
lanterns. There is a roll in the ground, and the towers 
just appear above the pitch of the roof, as though the good 

25 ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic swell. At any 
moment it might be a hundred feet away from you, climb- 
ing the next billow. At any moment a window might 
open, and some old admiral thrust forth a cocked hat, and 
94 



Noyon Cathedral 95 

proceed to take an observation. The old admirals sail 
the sea no longer; the old ships of battle are all broken 
up, and live only in pictures; but this, that was a church 
before ever they were thought upon, is still a church, and 
makes as brave an appearance by the Oise. The cathe- 5 
dral and the river are probably the two oldest things for 
miles around; and certainly they have both a grand old 
age. 

The Sacristan took us to the top of one of the towers, 
and showed us the five bells hanging in their loft. From 10 
above, the town was a tessellated pavement of roofs and 
gardens; the old line of rampart was plainly traceable; 
and the Sacristan pointed out to us, far across the plain, 
in a bit of gleaming sky between two clouds, the towers of 
Chateau Coucy. 15 

I find I never weary of great churches. It is my favo- 
rite kind of mountain scenery. Mankind was never so 
happily inspired as when it made a cathedral: a thing as 
single and specious as a statue to the first glance, and yet, 
on examination, as lively and interesting as a forest in 20 
detail. The height of spires cannot be taken by trigo- 
nometry; they measure absurdly short, but how tall they 
are to the admiring eye! And where we have so many 
elegant proportions, growing one out of the other, and all 
together into one, it seems as if proportion transcended 25 
itself and became something different and more imposing. 
I could never fathom how T a man dares to lift up his voice 
to preach in a cathedral. What is he to say that will not 
be an anti-climax? For though I have heard a consider- 
able variety of sermons, I never yet heard one that was so 30 
expressive as a cathedral. 'Tis the best preacher itself, 
and preaches day and night ; not only telling you of man's 
art and aspirations in the past, but convicting your own 
soul of ardent sympathies; or rather, like all good preach- 



g6 An Inland Voyage 

ers, it sets you preaching to yourself; — and every man is 
his own doctor of divinity in the last resort. 

As I sat outside of the hotel in the course of the after- 
noon, the sweet groaning thunder of the organ floated out 
5 of the church like a summons. I was not averse, liking 
the theater so well, to sit out an act or two of the play, 
but I could never rightly make out the nature of the service 
I beheld. Four or five priests and as many choristers were 
singing Miserere before the high altar when I went in. 

10 There was no congregation but a few old women on 
chairs and old men kneeling on the pavement. After a 
while a long train of young girls, walking two and two, 
each with a lighted taper in her hand, and all dressed in 
black with a white veil, came from behind the altar and 

15 began to descend the nave; the four first carrying a Virgin 
and child upon a table. The priests and choristers arose 
from their knees and followed after, singing "Ave Mary" 
as they went. In this order, they made the circuit of the 
cathedral, passing twice before me where I leaned against 

20 a pillar. The priest who seemed of most consequence was 
a strange, down-looking old man. He kept mumbling 
prayers with his lips ; but as he looked upon me darkling, 
it did not seem as if prayer were uppermost in his heart. 
Two others, who bore the burden of the chant, were 

25 stout, brutal, military-looking men of forty, with bold, 
overfed eyes; they sang with some lustiness, and trolled 
forth "Ave Mary" like a garrison catch. The little girls 
were timid and grave. As they footed slowly up the aisle, 
each one took a moment's glance at the Englishman ; and 

30 the big nun who played marshal fairly stared him out of 
countenance. As for the choristers, from first to last they 
misbehaved as only boys can misbehave ; and cruelly marred 
the performance with their antics. 

I understood a great deal of the spirit of what went on. 



Noyon Cathedral 97 

Indeed it would be difficult not to understand the Mise- 
rere, which I take to be the composition of an atheist. If 
it ever be a good thing to take such despondency to heart, 
the Miserere is the right music and a cathedral a fit scene. 
So far I am at one with the Catholics : — an odd name for 5 
them, after all? But why, in God's name, these holiday 
choristers? why these priests who steal wandering looks 
about the congregation while they feign to be at prayer? 
why this fat nun, who rudely arranges her procession and 
shakes delinquent virgins by the elbow? why this spitting, 10 
and snuffing, and forgetting of keys, and the thousand and 
one little misadventures that disturb a frame of mind, 
laboriously edified with chants and organings? In any 
play-house reverend fathers may see what can be done 
with a little art, and how, to move high sentiments, it is 15 
necessary to drill the supernumeraries and have every stool 
in its proper place. 

One other circumstance distressed me. I could bear a 
Miserere myself, having had a good deal of open air exer- 
cise of late; but I wished the old people somewhere else. 20 
It was neither the right sort of music nor the right sort of 
divinity, for men and women who have come through most 
accidents by this time, and probably have an opinion of 
their own upon the tragic element in life. A person up in 
years can generally do his own Miserere for himself; al- 25 
though I notice that such an one often prefers Jubilate 
Deo for his ordinary singing. On the whole, the most 
religious exercise for the aged is probably to recall their 
own experience; so many friends dead, so many hopes dis- 
appointed, so many slips and stumbles, and withal so 30 
many bright days and smiling providences; there is surely 
the matter of a very eloquent sermon in all this. 

On the whole, I was greatly solemnized. In the little 
pictorial map of our whole Inland Voyage, which my fancy 



98 An Inland Voyage 

still preserves, and sometimes unrolls for the amusement 
of odd moments, Noyon cathedral figures on a most pre- 
posterous scale, and must be nearly as large as a depart- 
ment. I can still see the faces of the priests as if they were 
5 at my elbow, and hear Ave Maria, ora pro nobis sounding 
through the church. All Noyon is blotted out for me by 
these superior memories; and I do not care to say more 
about the place. It was but a stack of brown roofs at the 
best, where I believe people live very reputably in a quiet 
10 way ; but the shadow of the church falls upon it when 
the sun is low, and the five bells are heard in all quarters, 
telling that the organ has begun. If ever I join the church 
of Rome, I shall stipulate to be Bishop of Noyon on the 
Oise. 



DOWN THE OISE: TO COMPIEGNE 

The most patient people grow weary at last with being 
continually wetted with rain; except of course in the 
Scotch Highlands, where there are not enough fine inter- 
vals to point the difference. That was like to be our case, 
the day we left Noyon. I remember nothing of the voy- 5 
age; it was nothing but clay banks and willows, and 
rain ; incessant, pitiless, beating rain : until we stopped to 
lunch at a little inn at Pimprez, where the canal ran very 
near the river. We were so sadly drenched that the land- 
lady lit a few sticks in the chimney for our comfort ; there 10 
we sat in a steam of vapor, lamenting our concerns. The 
husband donned a game-bag and strode out to shoot; the 
wife sat in a far corner watching us. I think we were 
worth looking at. We grumbled over the misfortune of 
La Fere; we forecast other La Feres in the future; — al- 15 
though things went better with the Cigarette for spokes- 
man; he had more aplomb altogether than I, and a dull, 
positive way of approaching a landlady that carried off the 
india-rubber bags. Talking of La Fere, put us talking of 
the reservists. 20 

" Reservery," said he, " seems a pretty mean way to 
spend one's autumn holiday." 

" About as mean," returned I dejectedly, " as canoeing." 

"These gentlemen travel for their pleasure?" asked the 
landlady, with unconscious irony. 25 

It was too much. The scales fell from our eyes. An- 
other wet day, it w T as determined, and we put the boats 
into the train. 



ioo An Inland Voyage 

The weather took the hint. That was our last wetting. 
The afternoon faired up : grand clouds still voyaged in the 
sky, but now singly, and with a depth of blue around their 
path; and a sunset, in the daintiest rose and gold, in- 

5 augurated a thick night of stars and a month of unbroken 
weather. At the same time, the river began to give us a 
better outlook into the country. The banks were not so 
high, the willows disappeared from along the margin, and 
pleasant hills stood all along its course and marked their 

10 profile on the sky. 

In a little while, the canal, coming to its last lock, began 
to discharge its water-houses on the Oise ; so that we had 
no lack of company to fear. Here were all our old friends ; 
the Deo Gratias of Conde and the Four Sons of Aymon, 

15 journeyed cheerily down stream along with us; we ex- 
changed waterside pleasantries with the steersman perched 
among the lumber, or the driver hoarse with bawling to 
his horses; and the children came and looked over the 
side as we paddled by. We had never known all this 

20 while how much we missed them ; but it gave us a fillip 
to see the smoke from their chimneys. 

A little below this junction, we made another meeting 
of yet more account. For there we were joined by the 
Aisne, already a far-traveled river and fresh out of Cham- 

25 pagne. Here ended the adolescence of the Oise ; this 
was his marriage day; thenceforward he had a stately, 
brimming march, conscious of his own dignity and sundry 
dams. He became a tranquil feature in the scene. The 
trees and towns saw themselves in him, as in a mirror. 

30 He carried the canoes lightly on his broad breast ; there 
was no need to work hard against an eddy: but idleness 
became the order of the day, and mere straightforward 
dipping of the paddle, now on this side, now on that, 
without intelligence or effort. Truly we were coming into 



Down the Oise : to Compiegne 101 

halcyon weather upon all accounts, and were floated to- 
wards the sea like gentlemen. 

We made Compiegne, as the sun was going down : a fine 
profile of a town above the river. Over the bridge, a 
regiment was parading to the drum. People loitered on 
the quay, some fishing, some looking idly at the stream. 
And as the two boats shot in along the water, we could see 
them pointing them out and speaking one to another. We 
landed at a floating lavatory, where the washerwomen 
were still beating the clothes. 



AT COMPIEGNE 

We put up at a big, bustling hotel in Compiegne, where 
nobody observed our presence. 

Reservery and general militarismus (as the Germans 
call it) was rampant. A camp of conical white tents 
5 without the town, looked like a leaf out of a picture 
Bible; sword-belts decorated the walls of the cafes; and 
the streets kept sounding all day long with military 
music. It is not possible to be an Englishman and avoid 
a feeling of elation ; for the men who followed the drums 

10 were small, and walked shabbily. Each man inclined at 
his own angle, and jolted to his own convenience, as he 
went. There was nothing of the superb gait with which a 
regiment of tall Highlanders moves behind its music, 
solemn and inevitable, like a natural phenomenon. Who, 

15 that has seen it, can forget the drum-major pacing in 
front, the drummers' tiger-skins, the pipers' swinging 
plaids, the strange elastic rhythm of the whole regiment 
footing it in time — and the bang of the drum, when the 
brasses cease, and the shrill pipes take up the martial story 

20 in their place? 

A girl, at school in France, began to describe one of our 
regiments on parade, to her French schoolmates ; and as she 
went on, she told me, the recollection grew so vivid, she 
became so proud to be the countrywoman of such soldiers, 

25 and so sorry to be in another country, that her voice 
failed her and she burst into tears. I have never forgotten 
that girl; and I think she very nearly deserves a statue. 
To call her a young lady, with all its niminy associa- 



At Compiegne 103 

tions, would be to offer her an insult. She may rest 
assured of one thing; although she never should marry a 
heroic general, never see any great or immediate result of 
her life, she will not have lived in vain for her native land. 

But though French soldiers show to ill-advantage on 5 
parade, on the march they are gay, alert, and willing like a 
troop of fox-hunters. I remember once seeing a company 
pass through the forest of Fontainebleau, on the Chailly 
road, between the Bas Breau and the Reine Blanche. One 
fellow walked a little before the rest, and sang a loud, 10 
audacious marching song. The rest bestirred their feet, 
and even swung their muskets in time. A young officer 
on horseback had hard ado to keep his countenance at the 
words. You never saw anything so cheerful and spon- 
taneous as their gait ; schoolboys do not look more eagerly 15 
at hare and hounds; and you would have thought it im- 
possible to tire such willing marchers. 

My great delight in Compiegne was the town-hall. I 
doted upon the town-hall. It is a monument of Gothic 
insecurity, all turreted, and gargoyled, and slashed, and 20 
bedizened with half a score of architectural fancies. Some 
of the niches are gilt and painted; and in a great square 
panel in the center, in black relief on a gilt ground, Louis 
XII rides upon a pacing horse, with hand on hip, and 
head thrown back. There is royal arrogance in every line 25 
of him; the stirruped foot projects insolently from the 
frame ; the eye is hard and proud ; the very horse seems 
to be treading with gratification over prostrate serfs, 
and to have the breath of the trumpet in his nostrils. So 
rides for ever, on the front of the town-hall, the good king 30 
Louis XII, the father of his people. 

Over the king's head, in the tall center turret, appears 
the dial of a clock; and high above that, three little 
mechanical figures, each one with a hammer in his hand, 



104 An Inland Voyage 

whose business it is to chime out the hours and halves and 
quarters for the burgesses of Compiegne. The center 
figure has a gilt breast-plate; the two others wear gilt 
trunk-hose ; and they all three have elegant, flapping hats 

5 like cavaliers. As the quarter approaches they turn their 
heads and look knowingly one to the other; and then, 
kling go the three hammers on three little bells below. 
The hour follows, deep and sonorous, from the interior of 
the tower; and the gilded gentlemen rest from their 

10 labors with contentment. 

I had a great deal of healthy pleasure from their ma- 
nceuvers, and took good care to miss as few performances 
as possible; and I found that even the Cigarette, while he 
pretended to despise my enthusiasm, was more or less a 

15 devotee himself. There is something highly absurd in 
the exposition of such toys to the outrages of winter on a 
housetop. They would be more in keeping in a glass case 
before a Niirnberg clock. Above all, at night, when the 
children are abed, and even grown people are snoring 

20 under quilts, does it not seem impertinent to leave these 
ginger-bread figures winking and tinkling to the stars and 
the rolling moon? The gargoyles may fitly enough twist 
their ape-like heads ; fitly enough may the potentate bestride 
his charger, like a centurion in an old German print of 

25 the Via Dolorosa; but the toys should be put away in a 
box among some cotton, until the sun rises, and the chil- 
dren are abroad again to be amused. 

In Compiegne post-office, a great packet of letters 
awaited us; and the authorities were, for this occasion 

30 only, so polite as to hand them over upon application. 

In some ways, our journey may be said to end with this 
letter-bag at Compiegne. The spell was broken. We had 
partly come home from that moment. 

No one should have any correspondence on a journey; 



At Compiegne 105 

it is bad enough to have to write ; but the receipt of letters 
is the death of all holiday feeling. 

" Out of my country and myself I go." I wish to take 
a dive among new conditions for a while, as into another 
element. I have nothing to do with my friends or my 5 
affections for the time ; when I came away, I left my heart 
at home in a desk, or sent it forward with my portmanteau 
to await me at my destination. After my journey is over, 
I shall not fail to read your admirable letters with the 
attention they deserve. But I have paid all this money, 10 
look you, and paddled all these strokes, for no other pur- 
pose than to be abroad ; and yet you keep me at home with 
your perpetual communications. You tug the string, and 
I feel that I am a tethered bird. You pursue me all over 
Europe w T ith the little vexations that I came aw r ay to 15 
avoid. There is no discharge in the war of life, I am well 
aware; but shall there not be so much as a week's fur- 
lough ? 

We were up by six, the day we were to leave. They had 
taken so little note of us that I hardly thought they would 20 
have condescended on a bill. But they did, with some 
smart particulars too; and we paid in a civilized manner 
to an uninterested clerk, and went out of that hotel, with 
the india-rubber bags, unremarked. No one cared to 
know about us. It is not possible to rise before a village; 25 
but Compiegne was so grown a town, that it took its ease 
in the morning; and we were up and away while it was 
still in dressing gown and slippers. The streets were left 
to people washing doorsteps; nobody was in full dress 
but the cavaliers upon the town-hall ; they were all washed 30 
with dew, spruce in their gilding, and full of intelligence 
and a sense of professional responsibility. Kling, went 
they on the bells for the half-past six, as we went by. I 
took it kind of them to make me this parting compliment; 



106 An Inland Voyage 

they never were in better form, not even at noon upon a 
Sunday. 

There was no one to see us off but the early washer- 
women — early and late — who were already beating the 
5 linen in their floating lavatory on the river. They were 
very merry and matutinal in their ways; plunged their 
arms boldly in, and seemed not to feel the shock. It 
would be dispiriting to me, this early beginning and first 
cold dabble, of a most dispiriting day's work. But I 
10 believe they would have been as unwilling to change 
days with us, as we could be to change with them. They 
crowded to the door to watch us paddle away into the thin 
sunny mists upon the river; and shouted heartily after 
us till we were through the bridge. 



CHANGED TIMES 

There is a sense in which those mists never rose from 
off our journey; and from that time forth they lie very 
densely in my note-book. As long as the Oise was a 
small rural river, it took us near by people's doors, and 
we could hold a conversation with natives in the riparian 5 
fields. But now that it had grown so wide, the life along 
shore passed us by at a distance. It was the same differ- 
ence as between a great public highway and a country 
by-path that wanders in and out of cottage gardens. We 
now lay in towns, where nobody troubled us with ques- 10 
tions; we had floated into civilized life, where people 
pass without salutation. In sparsely inhabited places, we 
make all we can of each encounter; but when it comes to 
a city, we keep to ourselves, and never speak unless we 
have trodden on a man's toes. In these waters, we were 15 
no longer strange birds, and nobody supposed we had 
traveled further than from the last town. I remember, 
when we came into L'Isle Adam, for instance, how we met 
dozens of pleasure-boats outing it for the afternoon, and 
there was nothing to distinguish the true voyager from the 20 
amateur, except, perhaps, the filthy condition of my sail. 
The company in one boat actually thought they recognized 
me for a neighbor. Was there ever anything more wound- 
ing? All the romance had come down to that. Now, on 
the upper Oise, where nothing sailed as a general thing 25 
but fish, a pair of canoeists could not be thus vulgarly ex- 
plained away; we were strange and picturesque intruders; 
and out of people's wonder sprang a sort of light and 
107 



io8 An Inland Voyage 

passing intimacy all along our route. There is nothing 
but tit for tat in this world, though sometimes it be a little 
difficult to trace : for the scores are older than we ourselves, 
and there has never yet been a settling-day since things 
5 were. You get entertainment pretty much in proportion as 
you give. As long as we were a sort of odd wanderers, 
to be stared at and followed like a quack doctor or a 
caravan, we had no want of amusement in return ; but as 
soon as we sank into commonplace ourselves, all whom we 

10 met were similarly disenchanted. And here is one reason 
of a dozen, why the world is dull to dull persons. 

In our early adventures there was generally something 
to do, and that quickened us. Even the showers of rain 
had a revivifying effect, and shook up the brain from tor- 

15 por. But now, when the river no longer ran in a proper 
sense, only glided seaward with an even, outright, but im- 
perceptible speed, and when the sky smiled upon us day 
after day without variety, we began to slip into that 
golden doze of the mind which follows upon much exercise 

20 in the open air. I have stupefied myself in this way 
more than once; indeed, I dearly love the feeling; but 
I never had it to the same degree as w T hen paddling down 
the Oise. It was thejapotheosis of stupidity. 

We ceased reading entirely. Sometimes when I found 

25 a new paper, I took a particular pleasure in reading a 
single number of the current novel ; but I never could bear 
more than three instalments; and even the second was a 
disappointment. As soon as the tale became in any way 
perspicuous, it lost all merit in my eyes; only a single 

30 scene, or, as is the way with these jeuilletons, half a scene, 
without antecedent or consequence, like a piece of a dream, 
had the knack of fixing my interest. The less I saw of 
the novel, the better I liked it: a pregnant reflection. 
But for the most part, as I said, we neither of us read any- 



Changed Times 109 

thing in the world, and employed the very little while we 
w T ere awake between bed and dinner in poring upon maps. 
I have always been fond of maps, and can voyage in an 
atlas with the greatest enjoyment. The names of places 
are singularly inviting; the contour of coasts and rivers is 5 
enthralling to the eye; and to hit, in a map, upon some 
place you have heard of before, makes history a new pos- 
session. But we thumbed our charts, on these evenings, 
with the blankest unconcern. We cared not a fraction for 
this place or that. We stared at the sheet as children 10 
listen to their rattle; and read the names of towns or 
villages to forget them again at once. We had no romance 
in the matter; there was nobody so fancy-free. If you 
had taken the maps away while we were studying them 
most intently, it is a fair bet whether we might not have 15 
continued to study the table with the same delight. 

About one thing we were mightily taken up, and that 
was eating. I think I made a god of my belly. I re- 
member dwelling in imagination upon this or that dish till 
my mouth watered ; and long before we got in for the night 20 
my appetite w r as a clamant, instant annoyance. Some- 
times we paddled alongside for a while and whetted each 
other with gastronomical fancies as we went. Cake and 
sherry, a homely refection, but not within reach upon the 
Oise, trotted through my head for many a mile ; and once, 25 
as we were approaching Verberie, the Cigarette brought 
my heart into my mouth by the suggestion of oyster patties 
and Sauterne. 

I suppose none of us recognize the great part that is 
played in life by eating and drinking. The appetite is so 30 
imperious, that we can stomach the least interesting 
viands, and pass off a dinner hour thankfully enough on 
bread and water; just as there are men who must read 
something, if it were only Bradshaw's Guide. But there 



iio An Inland Voyage 

is a romance about the matter after all. Probably the 
table has more devotees than love ; and I am sure that food 
is much more generally entertaining than scenery. Do you 
give in, as Walt Whitman would say, that you are any 
5 the less immortal for that ? The true materialism is to be 
ashamed of what we are. To detect the flavor of an olive 
is no less a piece of human perfection, than to find beauty 
in the colors of the sunset. 

Canoeing was easy work. To dip the paddle at the 

10 proper inclination, now right, now left ; to keep the head 
down stream; to empty the little pool that gathered in 
the lap of the apron; to screw up the eyes against the 
glittering sparkles of sun upon the water; or now and 
again to pass below the whistling tow-rope of the Deo 

15 Gratias of Conde, or the Four Sons of Aymon — there was 
not much art in that; certain silly muscles managed it 
between sleep and waking; and meanwhile the brain had 
a whole holiday, and went to sleep. We took in, at a 
glance, the larger features of the scene; and beheld, with 

20 half an eye, bloused fishers and dabbling washerwomen 
on the bank. Now and again we might be half awakened 
by some church spire, by a leaping fish, or by a trail of 
river grass that clung about the paddle and had to be 
plucked off and thrown away. But these luminous in- 

25 tervals were only partially luminous. A little more of us 
was called into action, but never the whole. The central 
bureau of nerves, what in some moods we call Ourselves, 
enjoyed its holiday without disturbance, like a Govern- 
ment Office. The great wheels of intelligence turned idly 

30 in the head, like fly-wheels, grinding no grist. I have gone 
on for half an hour at a time, counting my strokes and for- 
getting the hundreds. I flatter myself the beasts that 
perish could not underbid that, as a low form of con- 
sciousness. And what a pleasure it was ! What a hearty, 



Changed Times 1 1 1 

tolerant temper did it bring about! There is nothing 
captious about a man who has attained to this, the one 
possible apotheosis in life, the Apotheosis of Stupidity; 
and he begins to feel dignified and longevous like 
a tree. 5 

There was one odd piece of practical metaphysics which 
accompanied what I may call the depth, if I must not call 
it the intensity, of my abstraction. What philosophers 
call me and not me, ego and non ego, preoccupied me 
whether I would or no. There was less me and more 10 
not me than I was accustomed to expect. I looked on 
upon somebody else, who managed the paddling; I was 
aware of somebody else's feet against the stretcher; my 
own body seemed to have no more intimate relation to me 
than the canoe, or the river, or the river banks. Nor 15 
this alone: something inside my mind, a part of my brain, a 
province of my proper being, had thrown off allegiance 
and set up for itself, or perhaps for the somebody else 
who did the paddling. I had dwindled into quite a little 
thing in a corner of myself. I was isolated in my own 20 
skull. Thoughts presented themselves unbidden ; they 
were not my thoughts, they were plainly some one else's; 
and I considered them like a part of the landscape. I 
take it, in short, that I was about as near Nirvana as would 
be convenient in practical life; and if this be so, I make 25 
the Buddhists my sincere compliments; 'tis an agreeable 
state, not very consistent with mental brilliancy, not ex- 
actly profitable in a money point of view, but very calm, 
golden and incurious, and one that sets a man superior 
to alarms. It may be best figured by supposing yourself 30 
to get dead drunk, and yet keep sober to enjoy it. I have 
a notion that open-air laborers must spend a large portion 
of their days in this ecstatic stupor, which explains their 
high composure and endurance. A pity to go to the ex- 



H2 An Inland Voyage 

pense of laudanum, when here is a better paradise for 
nothing! 

This frame of mind was the great exploit of our voyage, 
take it all in all. It was the farthest piece of travel 
5 accomplished. Indeed, it lies so far from beaten paths of 
language, that I despair of getting the reader into sym- 
pathy with the smiling, complacent idiocy of my condition ; 
when ideas came and went like motes in a sunbeam; 
when trees and church spires along the bank surged up 

10 from time to time into my notice, like solid objects through 
a rolling cloudland; when the rhythmical swish of boat 
and paddle in the water became a cradle-song to lull my 
thoughts asleep; when a piece of mud on the deck was 
sometimes an intolerable eyesore, and sometimes quite a 

15 companion for me, and the object of pleased considera- 
tion; — and all the time, with the river running and the 
shores changing upon either hand, I kept counting my 
strokes and forgetting the hundreds, the happiest animal 
in France. 



DOWN THE OISE: CHURCH INTERIORS 

We made our first stage below Compiegne to Pont 
Sainte Maxence. I was abroad a little after six the next 
morning. The air was biting and smelt of frost. In an 
open place, a score of women wrangled together over the 
day's market; and the noise of their negotiation sounded 5 
thin and querulous like that of sparrows on a winter's 
morning. The rare passengers blew into their hands, and 
shuffled in their wooden shoes to set the blood agog. The 
streets were full of icy shadow, although the chimneys 
were smoking overhead in golden sunshine. If you wake 10 
early enough at this season of the year, you may get up in 
December to break your fast in June. 

I found my way to the church; for there is always 
something to see about a church, whether living wor- 
shipers or dead men's tombs; you find there the deadliest 15 
earnest, and the hollowest deceit; and even where it is 
not a piece of history, it will be certain to leak out some 
contemporary gossip. It was scarcely so cold in the 
church as it was without, but it looked colder. The white 
nave was positively arctic to the eye; and the tawdriness 20 
of a continental altar looked more forlorn than usual in 
the solitude and the bleak air. Two priests sat in the 
chancel, reading and waiting penitents; and out in the 
nave, one very old woman was engaged in her devotions. 
It was a wonder how she was able to pass her beads when 25 
healthy young people were breathing in their palms and 
slapping their chest; but though this concerned me, I 
was yet more dispirited by the nature of her exercises. 
113 



H4 An Inland Voyage 

She went from chair to chair, from altar to altar, circum- 
navigating the church. To each shrine, she dedicated an 
equal number of beads and an equal length of time. Like 
a prudent capitalist with a somewhat cynical view of the 
5 commercial prospect, she desired to place her supplica- 
tions in a great variety of heavenly securities. She would 
risk nothing on the credit of any single intercessor. Out 
of the whole company of saints and angels, not one 
but was to suppose himself her champion elect against 

10 the Great Assizes ! I could only think of it as a dull, 
transparent jugglery, based upon unconscious unbelief. 

She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw; no more 
than bone and parchment, curiously put together. Her 
eyes, with which she interrogated mine, were vacant of 

15 sense. It depends on w T hat you call seeing, whether you 
might not call her blind. Perhaps she had known love: 
perhaps borne children, suckled them and given them pet 
names. But now that was all gone by, and had left her 
neither happier nor w T iser; and the best she could do with 

20 her mornings was to come up here into the cold church and 
juggle for a slice of heaven. It was not without a gulp 
that I escaped into the streets and the keen morning air. 
Morning? why, how tired of it she would be before night! 
and if she did not sleep, how then ? It is fortunate that not 

25 many of us are brought up publicly to justify our lives at 
the bar of threescore years and ten; fortunate that such 
a number are knocked opportunely on the head in what 
they call the flower of their years, and go away to suffer for 
their follies in private somewhere else. Otherwise, be- 

3otween sick children and discontented old folk, we might 
be put out of all conceit of life. 

I had need of all my cerebral hygiene during that day's 
paddle: the old devotee stuck in my throat sorely. But 
I was soon in the seventh heaven of stupidity; and knew 



Down the Oise: Church Interiors 115 

nothing but that somebody was paddling a canoe, while I 
was counting his strokes and forgetting the hundreds. I 
used sometimes to be afraid I should remember the hun- 
dreds; which would have made a toil of a pleasure; but 
the terror was chimerical, they went out of my mind by 5 
enchantment, and I knew no more than the man in the 
moon about my only occupation. 

At Creil, where we stopped to lunch, we left the canoes 
in another floating lavatory, which, as it was high noon, 
was packed with washerwomen, red-handed and loud- 10 
voiced ; and they and their broad jokes are about all I 
remember of the place. I could look up my history books, 
if you w T ere very anxious, and tell you a date or two; for 
it figured rather largely in the English wars. But I 
prefer to mention a girls' boarding-school, which had an 15 
interest for us because it was a girls' boarding-school, and 
because we imagined we had rather an interest for it. At 
least — there were the girls about the garden; and here 
were we on the river ; and there was more than one hand- 
kerchief waved as we went by. It caused quite a stir in 20 
my heart; and yet how w T e should have wearied and 
despised each other, these girls and I, if we had been intro- 
duced at a croquet party! But this is a fashion I love: 
to kiss the hand or wave the handkerchief to people I shall 
never see again, to play with possibility, and knock in a 25 
peg for fancy to hang upon. It gives the traveler a jog, 
reminds him that he is not a traveler everywhere, and 
that his journey is no more than a siesta by the way on the 
real march of life. 

The church at Creil was a nondescript place in the in- 30 
side, splashed with gaudy lights from the windows, and 
picked out with medallions of the Dolorous Way. But 
there was one oddity, in the way of an ex voto, which 
pleased me hugely: a faithful model of a canal boat, 



1 1 6 An Inland Voyage 

swung from the vault, with a written aspiration that God 
should conduct the Saint Nicolas of Creil to a good haven. 
The thing was neatly executed, and would have made the 
delight of a party of boys on the waterside. But what 
5 tickled me was the gravity of the peril to be conjured. 
You might hang up the model of a sea-going ship, and wel- 
come: one that is to plow a furrow round the world, and 
visit the tropic or the frosty poles, runs dangers that are 
well worth a candle and a mass. But the Saint Nicolas 

10 of Creil, which was to be tugged for some ten years by 
patient draught horses, in a weedy canal, with the poplars 
chattering overhead, and the skipper whistling at the tiller ; 
which was to do all its errands in green, inland places, and 
never got out of sight of a village belfry in all its cruising; 

15 why, you would have thought if anything could be done 
without the intervention of Providence, it would be that! 
But perhaps the skipper was a humorist: or perhaps a 
prophet, reminding people of the seriousness of life by 
this preposterous token. 

20 At Creil, as at Noyon, Saint Joseph seemed a favorite 
saint on the score of punctuality. Day and hour can be 
specified; and grateful people do not fail to specify them 
on a votive tablet, when prayers have been punctually 
and neatly answered. Whenever time is a consideration, 

25 Saint Joseph is the proper intermediary. I took a sort 
of pleasure in observing the vogue he had in France, for the 
good man plays a very small part in my religion at home. 
Yet I could not help fearing that, where the Saint is so 
much commended for exactitude, he will be expected to be 

30 very grateful for his tablet. 

This is foolishness to us Protestants; and not of great 
importance anyway. Whether people's gratitude for the 
good gifts that come to them, be wisely conceived or duti- 
fully expressed, is a secondary matter, after all, so long as 



Down the Oise : Church Interiors 117 

they feel gratitude. The true ignorance is when a man 
does not know that he has received a good gift, or begins to 
imagine that he has got it for himself. The self-made man 
is the funniest windbag after all ! There is a marked 
difference between decreeing light in chaos, and lighting 5 
the gas in a metropolitan back-parlor with a box of 
patent matches; and do what we will, there is always 
something made to our hand, if it were only our fingers. 
But there was something worse than foolishness pla- 
carded in Creil Church. The Association of the Living 10 
Rosary (of which I had never previously heard) is respon- 
sible for that. This association was founded, according to 
the printed advertisement, by a brief of Pope Gregory 
Sixteenth, on the 17th of January, 1832: according to a 
colored bas relief, it seems to have been founded, some- 15 
time or other, by the Virgin giving one rosary to Saint 
Dominic, and the Infant Saviour giving another to Saint 
Catherine of Sienna. Pope Gregory is not so imposing, 
but he is nearer hand. I could not distinctly make out 
whether the association was entirely devotional, or had 20 
an eye to good works; at least it is highly organized: the 
names of fourteen matrons and misses were filled in for 
each week of the month as associates, with one other, 
generally a married woman, at the top for Zelatrice: the 
choragus of the band. Indulgences, plenary and partial, 25 
follow on the performance of the duties of the association. 
" The partial indulgences are attached to the recitation of 
the rosary." On " the recitation of the required dizainef' 
a partial indulgence promptly follows. When people serve 
the kingdom of Heaven with a pass-book in their hands, 30 
I should always be afraid lest they should carry the 
same commercial spirit into their dealings with their 
fellow-men, which would make a sad and sordid business 
of this life. 



1 1 8 An Inland Voyage 

There is one more article, however, of happier import. 
"All these indulgences," it appeared, "are applicable to 
souls in purgatory." For God's sake, ye ladies of Creil, 
apply them all to the souls in purgatory without delay! 
5 Burns would take no hire for his last songs, preferring to 
serve his country out of unmixed love. Suppose you were 
to imitate the exciseman, mesdames, and even if the souls 
in purgatory were not greatly bettered, some souls in 
Creil upon the Oise would find themselves none the worse 

10 either here or hereafter. 

I cannot help wondering, as I transcribe these notes, 
whether a Protestant born and bred is in a fit state to 
understand these signs, and do them what justice they 
deserve; and I cannot help answering that he is not. 

15 They cannot look so merely ugly and mean to the faithful 
as they do to me. I see that as clearly as a proposition in 
Euclid. For these believers are neither weak nor wicked. 
They can put their tablet commending Saint Joseph for 
his despatch, as if he were still a village carpenter; they 

20 can "recite the required dizaine," and metaphorically 
pocket the indulgence, as if they had done a job for heaven; 
and then they can go out and look down unabashed upon 
this wonderful river flowing by, and up without confusion 
at the pin-point stars, which are themselves great worlds 

25 full of flowing rivers greater than the Oise. I see it as 
plainly, I say, as a proposition in Euclid, that my Protes- 
tant mind has missed the point, and that there goes with 
these deformities some higher and more religious spirit 
than I dream. 

30 I wonder if other people would make the same allow- 
ances for me? Like the ladies of Creil, having recited 
my rosary of toleration, I look for my indulgence on the 
spot. 



PRECY AND THE MARIONETTES 

We made Precy about sundown. The plain is rich with 
tufts of poplar. In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay 
under the hill-side. A faint mist began to rise and con- 
found the different distances together. There was not a 
sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows 5 
by the river, and the creaking of a cart down the long road 
that descends the hill. The villas in their gardens, the 
shops along the street, all seemed to have been deserted the 
day before; and I felt inclined to walk discreetly as one 
feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden, we came round a 10 
corner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a 
bevy of girls in Parisian costumes playing croquet. Their 
laughter and the hollow sound of ball and mallet, made 
a cheery stir in the neighborhood ; and the look of these 
slim figures, all corseted and ribboned, produced an answer- 15 
able disturbance in our hearts. We were within sniff of 
Paris, it seemed. And here were females of our own 
species playing croquet, just as if Precy had been a place in 
real life, instead of a stage in the fairy land of travel. 
For, to be frank, the peasant woman is scarcely to be 20 
counted as a woman at all, and after having passed by 
such a succession of people in petticoats digging and hoeing 
and making dinner, this company of coquettes under arms 
made quite a surprising feature in the landscape, and con- 
vinced us at once of being fallible males. 25 

The inn at Precy is the worst inn in France. Not even 
in Scotland have I found worse fare. It was kept by a 
brother and sister, neither of whom was out of their teens. 
119 



120 An Inland Voyage 

The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us; and the 
brother, who had been tippling, came in and brought with 
him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we ate. We found 
pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and pieces of un- 
5 known yielding substance in the ragout. The butcher 
entertained us with pictures of Parisian life, with which 
he professed himself well acquainted; the brother sitting 
the while on the edge of the billiard table, toppling precari- 
ously, and sucking the stump of a cigar. In the midst 

10 of these diversions, bang went a drum past the house, and 
a hoarse voice began issuing a proclamation. It was a 
man with marionettes announcing a performance for that 
evening. 

He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on 

15 another part of the girls' croquet green, under one of those 

open sheds which are so common in France to shelter 

markets; and he and his wife, by the time we strolled up 

there, were trying to keep order with the audience. 

It was the most absurd contention. The show-people 

20 had set out a certain number of benches ; and all who sat 
upon them were to pay a couple of sous for the accommoda- 
tion. They were always quite full — a bumper house — 
as long as nothing was going forward; but let the show- 
woman appear with an eye to a collection, and at the first 

25 rattle of her tambourine, the audience slipped off the 
seats, and stood round on the outside with their hands in 
their pockets. It certainly would have tried an angel's 
temper. The showman roared from the proscenium; he 
had been all over France, and nowhere, nowhere, " not 

30 even on the borders of Germany," had he met with such 
misconduct. Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he 
called them! And every now and again, the wife issued 
on another round, and added her shrill quota to the tirade. 
I remarked here, as elsewhere, how far more copious is the 



Precy and the Marionettes 121 

female mind in the material of insult. The audience 
laughed in high good humor over the man's declama- 
tions ; but they bridled and cried aloud under the woman's 
pungent sallies. She picked out the sore points. She 
had the honor of the village at her mercy. Voices an- 5 
swered her angrily out of the crowd, and received a smart- 
ing retort for their trouble. A couple of old ladies beside 
me, who had duly paid for their seats, waxed very red and 
indignant, and discoursed to each other audibly about the 
impudence of these mountebanks; but as soon as the 10 
show-woman caught a whisper of this, she was down upon 
them with a swoop: if mesdames could persuade their 
neighbors to act with common honesty, the mountebanks, 
she assured them, would be polite enough: mesdames 
had probably had their bowl of soup, and perhaps a glass 15 
of wine that evening; the mountebanks also had a taste 
for soup, and did not choose to have their little earnings 
stolen from them before their eyes. Once, things came as 
far as a brief personal encounter between the showman 
and some lads, in which the former went down as readily 20 
as one of his own marionettes to a peal of jeering 
laughter. 

I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I am 
pretty well acquainted with the ways of French strollers, 
more or less artistic; and have always found them singu- 25 
larly pleasing. Any stroller must be dear to the right- 
thinking heart; if it were only as a living protest against 
offices and the mercantile spirit, and as something to 
remind us, that life is not by necessity the kind of thing we 
generally make it. Even a German band, if you see it 30 
leaving town in the early morning for a campaign in 
country places, among trees and meadows, has a romantic 
flavor for the imagination. There is nobody, under 
thirty, so dead but his heart will stir a little at sight of a 



122 An Inland Voyage 

gipsies' camp. "We are not cotton-spinners all;" or, 
at least, not all through. There is some life in humanity 
yet: and youth will now and again find a brave word to 
say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to go 
5 strolling with a knapsack. 

An Englishman has always special facilities for inter- 
course with French gymnasts ; for England is the natural 
home of gymnasts. This or that fellow, in his tights and 
spangles, is sure to know a word or two of English, to 

10 have drunk English aff-n-afi, and perhaps performed in 
an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by 
profession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to 
the notion that I must be an athlete myself. 

But the gymnast is not my favorite ; he has little or no 

15 tincture of the artist in his composition; his soul is small 
and pedestrian, for the most part, since his profession 
makes no call upon it, and does not accustom him to high 
ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor that he 
can stumble through a farce, he is made free of a new 

20 order of thoughts. He has something else to think about 
beside the money-box. He has a pride of his own, and, 
what is of far more importance, he has an aim before him 
that he can never quite attain. He has gone upon a pil- 
grimage that will last him his life-long, because there is no 

25 end to it short of perfection. He will better upon himself 
a little day by day ; or even if he has given up the attempt, 
he will always remember that once upon a time he had 
conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he had 
fallen in love with a star. " 'Tis better to have loved and 

30 lost." Although the moon should have nothing to say to 
Endymion, although he should settle down with Audrey 
and feed pigs, do you not think he would move with a 
better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to the end? 
The louts he meets at church never had a fancy above 



Precy and the Marionettes 123 

Audrey's snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endym- 
ion's heart that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty. 

To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine 
stamp on a man's countenance. I remember once dining 
with a party in the inn at Chateau Landon. Most of 5 
them were unmistakable bagmen ; others well-to-do peas- 
antry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose 
face stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It 
looked more finished ; more of the spirit looked out through 
it; it had a living, expressive air, and you could see that 10 
his eyes took things in. My companion and I wondered 
greatly who and what he could be. It was fair time in 
Chateau Landon, and when we went along to the booths, 
we had our question answered; for there was our friend 
busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He was a 15 
wandering violinist. 

A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was 
staying, in the department of Seine et Marne. There was 
a father and mother; two daughters, brazen, blowsy 
huzzies, who sang and acted, without an idea of how to 20 
set about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a 
recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss. 
The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius 
can be spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompe- 
tent humbugs; and her husband could not find words to 25 
express his admiration for her comic countryman. " You 
should see my old woman," said he, and nodded his beery 
countenance. One night, they performed in the stable- 
yard, with flaring lamps: a wretched exhibition, coldly 
looked upon by a village audience. Next night, as soon 30 
as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and 
they had to sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, 
and make off to the barn where they harbored, cold, wet, 
and supperless. In the morning, a dear friend of mine, 



124 An Inland Voyage 

who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have myself, 
made a little collection, and sent it by my hands to comfort 
them for their disappointment. I gave it to the father ; he 
thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in the 
5 kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences, and hard times. 
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off 
with his hat. " I am afraid," said he, " that Monsieur 
will think me altogether a beggar; but I have another 
demand to make upon him." I began to hate him on the 

10 spot. "We play again to-night," he went on. "Of 
course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from 
Monsieur and his friends, who have been already so 
liberal. But our program of to-night is something truly 
creditable; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur will 

IS honor us with his presence." And then, with a shrug 
and a smile: "Monsieur understands — the vanity of an 
artist ! " Save the mark ! The vanity of an artist ! That 
is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, 
tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a 

20 gentleman, and the vanity of an artist, to keep up his 
self-respect ! 

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. 
It is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed I 
hope I may see him often again. Here is his first pro- 

25 gram, as I found it on the breakfast table, and have 
kept it ever since as a relic of bright days: 

" Mesdames et Messieurs, 

"Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront Vhonneur 
de chanter ce soir les morceaux suivants. 
30 " Mademoiselle Ferrario chantera — Mignon — Oiseaux Legers — 
France — Des Francais dorment la — he chateau bleu — Oil voulez- 
•vous aller? 

" M. de Vauversin — Madame Fontaine et M. Robinet — Les 
plongeurs a cheval — he Mari mecontent — Tais-toi, gamin — Mon 
35 voisin Voriginal — Heureux comme ca — Comme on est trompe." 



Precy and the Marionettes 125 

They made a stage at one end of the salle-a-manger. 
And what a sight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a 
cigarette in his mouth, twanging a guitar, and following 
Mademoiselle Ferrario's eyes with the obedient, kindly 
look of a dog! The entertainment wound up with a torn- 5 
bola, or auction of lottery tickets: an admirable amuse- 
ment, with all the excitement of gambling, and no hope of 
gain to make you ashamed of your eagerness; for there, 
all is loss; you make haste to be out of pocket; it is a 
competition who shall lose most money for the benefit of 10 
M. de Vauversin and Mademoiselle Ferrario. 

M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of 
black hair, a vivacious and engaging air, and a smile 
that would be delightful if he had better teeth. He was 
once an actor in the Chatelet; but he contracted a nerv- 15 
ous affection from the heat and glare of the footlights, 
which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis Made- 
moiselle Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the 
Alcazar, agreed to share his w T andering fortunes. " I 
could never forget the generosity of that lady," said he. 20 
He wears trousers so tight that it has long been a problem 
to all who knew him how he manages to get in and out 
of them. He sketches a little in water-colors; he writes 
verses; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent 
long days at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly 25 
dabbling a line in the clear river. 

You should hear him recounting his experiences over a 
bottle of w T ine ; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with 
a ready smile at his own mishaps, and every now and then 
a sudden gravity, like a man who should hear the surf roar 30 
while he was telling the perils of the deep. For it w T as no 
longer ago than last night, perhaps, that the receipts only 
amounted to a franc and a half, to cover three francs of 
railway fare and two of board and lodging. The Maire, 



126 An Inland Voyage 

a man worth a million of money, sat in the front seat, 
repeatedly applauding Mademoiselle Ferrario, and yet 
gave no more than three sous the whole evening. Local 
authorities look with such an evil eye upon the strolling 
5 artist. Alas! I know it well, who have been myself taken 
for one, and pitilessly incarcerated on the strength of the 
misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a com- 
missary of police for permission to sing. The commissary, 
who was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon 

10 the singer's entrance. " Mr. Commissary," he began, " I 
am an artist." And on went the commissary's hat again. 
No courtesy for the companions of Apollo! "They are 
as degraded as that," said M. de Vauversin, with a sweep 
of his cigarette. 

15 But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, 
when we had been talking all the evening of the rubs, 
indignities, and pinchings of his wandering life. Some one 
said, it would be better to have a million of money down, 
and Mademoiselle Ferrario admitted that she would prefer 

20 that mightily. "Eh bien, moi nan; — not I," cried De 
Vauversin, striking the table with his hand. " If any one 
is a failure in the world, is it not I ? I had an art, in which 
I have done things well — as well as some — better per- 
haps than others ; and now it is closed against me. I must 

25 go about the country gathering coppers and singing non- 
sense. Do you think I regret my life? Do you think I 
would rather be a fat burgess, like a calf? Not I ! I have 
had moments when I have been applauded on the boards: 
I think nothing of that ; but I have known in my own mind 

30 sometimes, when I had not a clap from the whole house ; 
that I had found a true intonation, or an exact and speak- 
ing gesture; and then, messieurs, I have known what 
pleasure was, what it was to do a thing well, what it was 
to be an artist. And to know what art is, is to have an 



Precy and the Marionettes 127 

interest for ever, such as no burgess can find in his petty 
concerns. Tenez, messieurs, je vals vous le dire — it is like 
a religion." 

Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory 
and the inaccuracies of translation, was the profession of 5 
faith of M. de Vauversin. I have given him his own name 
lest any other wanderer should come across him, with his 
guitar and cigarette, and Mademoiselle Ferrario ; for 
should not all the world delight to honor this unfor- 
tunate and loyal follower of the Muses? May Apollo 10 
send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the river be 
no longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the 
cold not pinch him on long winter rides, nor the village 
jack-in-ofrlce affront him with unseemly manners; and 
may he never miss Mademoiselle Ferrario from his side, 15 
to follow with his dutiful eyes and accompany on the 
guitar ! 

The marionettes made a very dismal entertainment. 
They performed a piece, called Pyramus and Thisbe, in 
five mortal acts, and all written in Alexandrines, fully as 20 
long as the performers. One marionette was the king; 
another the wicked counsellor; a third, credited with 
exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe; and then there 
were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen. 
Nothing particular took place during the two or three acts 25 
that I sat out; but you will be pleased to learn that the 
unities were properly respected, and the whole piece, with 
one exception, moved in harmony with classical rules. 
That exception was the comic countryman, a lean mario- 
nette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose and in a broad 30 
patois much appreciated by the audience. He took un- 
constitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; 
kicked his fellow marionettes in the mouth with his wooden 
shoes, and whenever none of the versifying suitors were 



128 An Inland Voyage 

about, made love to Thisbe on his own account in comic 
prose. 

This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in 
which the showman made a humorous eulogium of his 
5 troop, praising their indifference to applause and hisses, 
and their single devotion to their art, were the only cir- 
cumstances in the whole affair that you could fancy w T ould 
so much as raise a smile. But the villagers of Precy 
seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is an exhibi- 

10 tion, and you pay to see it, it is nearly certain to amuse. If 
we were charged so much a head for sunsets, or if God 
sent round a drum before the hawthorns came in flower, 
what a work should we not make about their beauty ! But 
these things, like good companions, stupid people early cease 

15 to observe : and the Abstract Bagman tittups past in his 
spring gig, and is positively not aware of the flowers along 
the lane, or the scenery of the weather overhead. 



BACK TO THE WORLD 

Of the next two days' sail little remains in my mind, 
and nothing whatever in my note-book. The river 
streamed on steadily through pleasant riverside landscapes. 
Washerwomen in blue dresses, fishers in blue blouses, 
diversified the green banks; and the relation of the two 5 
colors was like that of the flower and the leaf in the forget- 
me-not. A symphony in forget-me-not; I think Theo- 
phile Gautier might thus have characterized the two days' 
panorama. The sky was blue and cloudless; and the 
sliding surface of the river held up, in smooth places, a 10 
mirror to the heaven and the shores. The washerwomen 
hailed us laughingly; and the noise of trees and water 
made an accompaniment to our dozing thoughts, as we 
fleeted down the stream. 

The great volume, the indefatigable purpose of the river, 15 
held the mind in chain. It seemed now so sure of its end, 
so strong and easy in its gait, like a grown man full of 
determination. The surf was roaring for it on the sands 
of Havre. 

For my own part, slipping along this moving thorough- 20 
fare in my fiddle-case of a canoe, I also was beginning to 
grow aweary for my ocean. To the civilized man, there 
must come, sooner or later, a desire for civilization. I 
was weary of dipping the paddle; I was weary of living 
on the skirts of life; I wished to be in the thick of it 25 
once more; I wished to get to work; I wished to meet 
people who understood my own speech, and could meet 
129 



130 An Inland Voyage 

with me on equal terms, as a man, and no longer as a 
curiosity. 

And so a letter at Pontoise decided us, and we drew 
up our keels for the last time out of that river of Oise 
5 that had faithfully piloted them, through rain and sun- 
shine, for so long. For so many miles had this fleet and 
footless beast of burthen charioted our fortunes, that we 
turned our back upon it with a sense of separation. We 
had made a long detour out of the world, but now we were 

10 back in the familiar places, where life itself makes all the 
running, and we are carried to meet adventure without a 
stroke of the paddle. Now we were to return, like the 
voyager in the play, and see what rearrangements fortune 
had perfected the while in our surroundings; what sur- 

15 prises stood ready made for us at home; and whither and 
how far the world had voyaged in our absence. You may 
paddle all day long; but it is when you come back at night- 
fall, and look in at the familiar room, that you find Love or 
Death awaiting you beside the stove ; and the most beauti- 

20 ful adventures are not those we go to seek. 



TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 
IN THE CEVENNES 



PREFACE 

My dear Sidney Colvin, 

The journey which this little book is to describe was 
very agreeable and fortunate for me. After an uncouth 
beginning, I had the best of luck to the end. But we 
are all travelers in what John Bunyan calls the wilder- 5 
ness of this world, — all, too, travelers with a donkey; 
and the best that we find in our travels is an honest 
friend. He is a fortunate voyager who finds many. We 
travel, indeed, to find them. They are the end and the 
reward of life. They keep us worthy of ourselves; and 10 
when we are alone, we are only nearer to the absent. 

Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter 
to the friends of him who writes it. They alone take 
his meaning; they find private messages, assurances of love, 
and expressions of gratitude, dropped for them in every 15 
corner. The public is but a generous patron who defrays 
the postage. Yet though the letter is directed to all, we 
have an old and kindly custom of addressing it on the 
outside to one. Of what shall a man be proud, if he is 
not proud of his friends? And so, my dear Sidney Colvin, 20 
it is with pride that I sign myself affectionately yours, 

R. L. S. 



VELAY 



" Many are the mighty things, and naught is more mighty 
than man. . . . He masters by his devices the tenant of the 
fields."— Antigone. 

" Who hath loosed the bands of the wild ass ? " — Job. 




Our Lady of the Snows 



TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 



CHAPTER I 



THE DONKEY, THE PACK, AND THE PACK-SADDLE 



In a little place called Le Monastier, in a pleasant 
highland valley fifteen miles from Le Puy, I spent about 
a month of fine days. Monastier is notable for the mak- 
ing of lace, for drunkenness, for freedom of language, 
and for unparalleled political dissension. There are ad- 5 
herents of each of the four French parties — Legitimists, 
Orleanists, Imperialists, and Republicans — in this little 
mountain-town; and they all hate, loathe, decry, and 
calumniate each other. Except for business purposes, or 
to give each other the lie in a tavern brawl, they have 10 
laid aside even the civility of speech. 'Tis a mere moun- 
i37 



138 Travels with a Donkey 

tain Poland. In the midst of this Babylon I found myself 
a rallying-point ; every one was anxious to be kind and 
helpful to the stranger. This was not merely from the 
natural hospitality of mountain people, nor even from the 
5 surprise with which I was regarded as a man living of 
his own free will in Le Monastier, when he might just as 
well have lived anywhere else in this big world; it arose 
a* good deal from my projected excursion southward 
through the Cevennes. A traveler of my sort was a thing 

10 hitherto unheard of in that district. I was looked upon 
with contempt, like a man who should project a journey 
to the moon, but yet with a respectful interest, like one set- 
ting forth for the inclement Pole. All were ready to 
help in my preparations; a crowd of sympathizers sup- 

15 ported me at the critical moment of a bargain ; not a step 
was taken but was heralded by glasses round and celebrated 
by a dinner or a breakfast. 

It was already hard upon October before I was ready 
to set forth, and at the high altitudes over w T hich my road 

20 lay there was no Indian summer to be looked for. I was 
determined, if not to camp out, at least to have the means 
of camping out in my possession ; for there is nothing 
more harassing to an easy mind than the necessity of 
reaching shelter by dusk, and the hospitality of a village 

25 inn is not always to be reckoned sure by those w T ho trudge 
on foot. A tent, above all for a solitary traveler, is 
troublesome to pitch, and troublesome to strike again; 
and even on the march it forms a conspicuous feature in 
your baggage. A sleeping-sack, on the other hand, is 

30 always ready — you have only to get into it ; it serves a 
double purpose — a bed by night, a portmanteau by day; 
and it does not advertise your intention of camping out 
to every curious passer-by. This is a huge point. If 
the camp is not secret, it is but a troubled resting-place; 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 139 

you become a public character; the convivial rustic visits 
)Our bedside after an early supper; and you must sleep 
with one eye open, and be up before the day. I decided on a 
sleeping-sack; and after repeated visits to Le Puy, and a 
deal of high living for myself and my advisers, a sleeping- 5 
sack was designed, constructed, and triumphantly brought 
home. 

This child of my invention was nearly six feet square, 
exclusive of two triangular flaps to serve as a pillow by 
night and as the top and bottom of the sack by day. I 10 
call it " the sack," but it was never a sack by more than 
courtesy: only a sort of long roll or sausage, green water- 
proof cart-cloth without and blue sheep's fur within. It 
was commodious as a valise, warm and dry for a bed. 
There was luxurious turning-room for one ; and at a pinch 15 
the thing might serve for two. I could bury myself in 
it up to the neck ; for my head I trusted to a fur cap, with 
a hood to fold down over my ears, and a band to pass un- 
der my nose like a respirator ; and in case of heavy rain 
I proposed to make myself a little tent, or tentlet, with 20 
my waterproof coat, three stones, and a bent branch. 

It will readily be conceived that I could not carry this 
huge package on my own, merely human, shoulders. It 
remained to choose a beast of burden. Now, a horse is 
a fine lady among animals, flighty, timid, delicate in eating, 25 
of tender health; he is too valuable and too restive to be 
left alone, so that you are chained to your brute as to a 
fellow galley-slave; a dangerous road puts him out of his 
wits; in short, he's an uncertain and exacting ally, and 
adds thirty-fold to the troubles of the voyager. What I 30 
required was something cheap and small and hardy, and 
of a stolid and peaceful temper; and all these requisites 
pointed to a donkey. 

There dwelt an old man in Monastier, of rather un- 



140 Travels with a Donkey 

sound intellect according to some, much followed by street- 
boys, and known to fame as Father Adam. Father Adam 
had a cart, and to draw the cart a diminutive she-ass, not 
much bigger than a dog, the color of a mouse, with a 
5 kindly eye and a determined under-jaw. There was some- 
thing neat and high-bred, a quakerish elegance, about the 
rogue that hit my fancy on the spot. Our first inter- 
view was in Monastier market-place. To prove her good 
temper, one child after another was set upon her back 

10 to ride, and one after another went head over heels into the 
air; until a want of confidence began to reign in youthful 
bosoms, and the experiment was discontinued from a 
dearth of subjects. I was already backed by a deputation 
of my friends; but as if this were not enough, all the 

15 buyers and sellers came round and helped me in the bar- 
gain; and the ass and I and Father Adam were the 
center of a hubbub for near half an hour. At length 
she passed into my service for the consideration of sixty- 
five francs and a glass of brand}^. The sack had already 

20 cost eighty francs and two glasses of beer ; so that Mo- 
destine, as I instantly baptized her, was upon all accounts 
the cheaper article. Indeed, that was as it should be; for 
she was only an appurtenance of my mattress, or self- 
acting bedstead on four casters. 

25 I had a last interview with Father Adam in a billiard- 
room at the witching hour of dawn, when I administered 
the brandy. He professed himself greatly touched by the 
separation, and declared he had often bought white bread 
for the donkey when he had been content with black 

30 bread for himself; but this, according to the best authori- 
ties, must have been a flight of fancy. He had a name 
in the village for brutally misusing the ass; yet it is cer- 
tain that he shed a tear, and the tear made a clean mark 
down one cheek. 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 141 

By the advice of a fallacious local saddler, a leather 
pad was made for me with rings to fasten on my bundle; 
and I thoughtfully completed my kit and arranged my 
toilet. By way of armory and utensils, I took a re- 
volver, a little spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern and some 5 
half-penny candles, a jack-knife and a large leather flask. 
The main cargo consisted of two entire changes of warm 
clothing-^besides my traveling wear of country velveteen, 
pilot-coat, and knitted spencer — some books, and my rail- 
way-rug, which, being also in the form of a bag, 10 
made me a double castle for cold nights. The perma- 
nent larder was represented by cakes of chocolate and 
tins of Bologna sausage. All this, except what I carried 
about my person, was easily stowed into the sheepskin bag; 
and by good fortune I threw in my empty knapsack, rather 15 
for convenience of carriage than from any thought that 
I should want it on my journey. For more immediate 
needs, I took a leg of cold mutton, a bottle of Beaujolais, 
an empty bottle to carry milk, an egg-beater, and a con- 
siderable quantity of black bread and white, like Father 20 
Adam, for myself and donkey, only in my scheme of things 
the destinations were reversed. 

Monastrians, of all shades of thought in politics, had 
agreed in threatening me with many ludicrous misadven- 
tures, and with sudden death in many surprising forms. 25 
Cold, wolves, robbers, above all the nocturnal practical 
joker, were daily and eloquently forced on my attention. 
Yet in these vaticinations, the true, patent danger was 
left out. Like Christian, it was from my pack I suffered 
by the way. Before telling my own mishaps, let me, in 30 
two words, relate the lesson of my experience. If the 
pack is well strapped at the ends, and hung at full length 
— not doubled, for your life — across the pack-saddle, the 
traveler is safe. The saddle will certainly not fit, such 



142 Travels with a Donkey 

is the imperfection of our transitory life; it will assuredly 
topple and tend to overset; but there are stones on every 
roadside, and a man soon learns the art of correcting any 
tendency to overbalance with a well-adjusted stone. 

5 On the day of my departure I was up a little after five ; 
by six, we began to load the donkey; and ten minutes 
after, my hopes were in the dust. The pad would not 
stay on Modestine' s back for half a moment. I returned 
it to its maker, with whom I had so contumelious a passage 

10 that the street outside was crowded from wall to wall with 
gossips looking on and listening. The pad changed hands 
with much vivacity; perhaps it would be more descrip- 
tive to say that we threw it at each other's heads; and 
at any rate, we were very warm and unfriendly, and spoke 

15 with a deal of freedom. 

I had a common donkey pack-saddle — a barde, as they 
call it — fitted upon Modestine; and once more loaded her 
with my effects. The doubled sack, my pilot-coat (for 
it was warm, and I was to walk in my waistcoat), a great 

20 bar of black bread, and an open basket containing the 
white bread, the mutton, and the bottles, were all corded 
together in a very elaborate system of knots, and I looked 
on the result with fatuous content. In such a monstrous 
deck-cargo, all poised above the donkey's shoulders, with 

25 nothing below to balance, and a brand-new pack-saddle 
that had not yet been worn to fit the animal, and fastened 
with brand-new girths that might be expected to stretch 
and slacken by the way, even a very careless traveler 
should have seen disaster brewing. That elaborate system 

30 of knots, again, was the work of too many sympathizers to 
be very artfully designed. It is true they tightened the 
cords with a will ; as many as three at a time would have 
a foot against Modestine 's quarters, and be hauling with 
clenched teeth ; but I learned afterwards that one thought- 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 143 

ful person, without any exercise of force, can make a more 
solid job than half a dozen heated and enthusiastic grooms. 
I was then but a novice; even after the misadventure 
of the pad nothing could disturb my security, and I went 
forth from the stable-door as an ox goeth to the slaughter. 5 



CHAPTER II 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER 



The bell of Monastier was just striking nine as I got 
quit of these preliminary troubles and descended the hill 
through the common. As long as I was within sight of 
the windows, a secret shame and the fear of some laugh- 

5 able defeat withheld me from tampering with Modestine. 
She tripped along upon her four small hoofs with a sober 
daintiness of gait; from time to time she shook her ears 
or her tail ; and she looked so small under the bundle that 
my mind misgave me. We got across the ford without 

10 difficulty — there was no doubt about the matter, she was 
docility itself — and once on the other bank, where the 
road begins to mount through pine-woods, I took in my 
right hand the unhallowed staff, and with a quaking spirit 
applied it to the donkey. Modestine brisked up her pace 

15 for perhaps three steps, and then relapsed into her former 
minuet. Another application had the same effect, and 
so with the third. I am worthy the name of an English- 
man, and it goes against my conscience to lay my hand 
rudely on a female. I desisted, and looked her all over 

20 from head to foot ; the poor brute's knees were trembling 
and her breathing was distressed; it was plain that she 
could go no faster on a hill. God forbid, thought I, 
that I should brutalize this innocent creature; let her go 
at her own pace, and let me patiently follow. 

25 What that pace was, there is no word mean enough to 
describe; it was something as much slower than a walk 



The Green Donkey-Driver 145 

as a walk is slower than a run ; it kept me hanging on 
each foot for an incredible length of time; in five minutes 
it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles 
of the leg. And yet I had to keep close at hand and 
measure my advance exactly upon hers; for if I dropped 5 
a few yards into the rear, or went on a few yards ahead, 
Modestine came instantly to a halt and began to browse. 
The thought that this was to last from here to Alais 
nearly broke my heart. Of all conceivable journeys, this 
promised to be the most tedious. I tried to tell my- 10 
self it was a lovely day; I tried to charm my foreboding 
spirit with tobacco; but I had a vision ever present to 
me of the long, long roads, up hill and down dale, and a 
pair of figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, 
a yard to the minute, and, like things enchanted in a 15 
nightmare, approaching no nearer to the goal. 

In the meantime there came up behind us a tall peasant, 
perhaps forty years of age, of an ironical snuffy counte- 
nance, and arrayed in the green tail-coat of the country. 
He overtook us hand over hand, and stopped to consider 20 
our pitiful advance. 

"Your donkey," says he, "is very old?" 

I told him, I believed not. 

Then, he supposed, we had come far. 

I told him, we had but newly left Monastier. 25 

" Et vons marchez comme cat" cried he; and, throwing 
back his head, he laughed long and heartily. I watched 
him, half prepared to feel offended, until he had satisfied 
his mirth; and then, "You must have no pity on these 
animals," said he; and, plucking a switch out of a thicket, 30 
he began to lace Modestine about the stern-works, utter- 
ing a cry. The rogue pricked up her ears and broke into a 
good round pace, which she kept up without flagging, 
and without exhibiting the least symptom of distress, as 



146 Travels with a Donkey 

long as the peasant kept beside us. Her former panting 
and shaking had been, I regret to say, a piece of comedy. 
My deus ex machina, before he left me, supplied some 
excellent, if inhumane, advice; presented me with the 
5 switch, which he declared she would feel more tenderly 
than my cane; and finally taught me the true cry or 
masonic word of donkey-drivers, " Proot! " All the time, 
he regarded me with a comical incredulous air, which 
was embarrassing to confront ; and smiled over my donkey- 

10 driving, as I might have smiled over his orthography, 
or his green tail-coat. But it was not my turn for the 
moment. 

I was proud of my new lore, and thought I had learned 
the art to perfection. And certainly Modestine did won- 

15 ders for the rest of the forenoon, and I had a breathing 
space to look about me. It was Sabbath; the mountain- 
fields were all vacant in the sunshine; and as we came 
down through St. Martin de Frugeres, the church was 
crowded to the door, there were people kneeling without 

20 upon the steps, and the sound of the priest's chanting 
came forth out of the dim interior. It gave me a home 
feeling on the spot ; for I am a countryman of the Sabbath, 
so to speak, and all Sabbath observances, like a Scotch 
accent, strike in me mixed feelings, grateful and the re- 

25 verse. It is only a traveler, hurrying by like a person 
from another planet, who can rightly enjoy the peace and 
beauty of the great ascetic feast. The sight of the resting 
country does his spirit good. There is something better 
than music in the wide unusual silence; and it disposes 

30 him to amiable thoughts, like the sound of a little river or 
the warmth of sunlight. 

In this pleasant humor I came down the hill to where 
Goudet stands in a green end of a valley, with Chateau 
Beaufort opposite upon a rocky steep, and the stream, as 



The Green Donkey-Driver 147 

clear as crystal, lying in a deep pool between them. Above 
and below, you may hear it wimpling over the stones, an 
amiable stripling of a river, which it seems absurd to call 
the Loire. On all sides, Goudet is shut in by mountains; 
rocky foot-paths, practicable at best for donkeys, join it 5 
to the outer world of France; and the men and women 
drink and swear, in their green corner, or look up at the 
snow-clad peaks in winter from the threshold of their 
homes, in an isolation, you would think, like that of 
Homer's Cyclops. But it is not so; the postman reaches 10 
Goudet with the letter-bag; the aspiring youth of Goudet 
are within a day's walk of the railway at Le Puy; and 
here in the inn you may find an engraved portrait of the 
host's nephew, Regis Senac, " Professor of Fencing and 
Champion of the two Americas," a distinction gained by 15 
him, along with the sum of five hundred dollars, at 
Tammany Hall, New York, on the 10th April, 
1876. 

I hurried over my midday meal, and was early forth 
again. But, alas, as w T e climbed the interminable hill 20 
upon the other side, "Proot!" seemed to have lost its 
virtue. I prooted like a lion, I prooted mellifluously 
like a sucking-dove; but Modestine would be neither 
softened nor intimidated. She held doggedly to her pace; 
nothing but a blow would move her, and that only for a 25 
second. I must follow at her heels, incessantly belabor- 
ing. A moment's pause in this ignoble toil, and she 
relapsed into her own private gait. I think I never heard 
of any one in as mean a situation. I must reach the lake 
of Bouchet, where I meant to camp, before sundow T n, and, 30 
to have even a hope of this, I must instantly maltreat this 
uncomplaining animal. The sound of my own blows 
sickened me. Once, when I looked at her, she had a faint 
resemblance to a lady of my acquaintance who formerly 



148 Travels with a Donkey 

loaded me with kindness; and this increased my horror 
of my cruelty. 

To make matters worse, we encountered another don- 
key, ranging at will upon the roadside; and this donkey 
5 chanced to be a gentleman. He and Modestine met 
nickering for joy, and I had to separate the pair and beat 
down their young romance with a renewed and feverish 
bastinado. If the other donkey had had the heart of a 
male under his hide, he would have fallen upon me tooth 

10 and hoof; and this was a kind of consolation — he was 
plainly unworthy of Modestine 's affection. But the in- 
cident saddened me, as did everything that spoke of my 
donkey's sex. 

It was blazing hot up the valley, windless, with vehe- 

15 ment sun upon my shoulders; and I had to labor so 
consistently with my stick that the sweat ran into my eyes. 
Every five minutes, too, the pack, the basket, and the 
pilot-coat would take an ugly slew to one side or the 
other; and I had to stop Modestine, just when I had 

20 got her to a tolerable pace of about two miles an hour, 
to tug, push, shoulder, and readjust the load. And at 
last, in the village of Ussel, saddle and all, the whole 
hypothec turned round and groveled in the dust below the 
donkey's belly. She, none better pleased, incontinently 

25 drew up and seemed to smile ; and a party of one man, 

two women, and two children came up, and, standing 

round me in a half-circle, encouraged her by their example. 

I had the devil's own trouble to get the thing righted; 

and the instant I had done so, without hesitation, it top- 

30 pled and fell down upon the other side. Judge if I was 
hot! And yet not a hand was offered to assist me. The 
man, indeed, told me I ought to have a package of a 
different shape. I suggested, if he knew nothing better 
to the point in my predicament, he might hold his tongue. 



The Green Donkey-Driver 149 

And the good-natured dog agreed with me smilingly. 
It was the most despicable fix. I must plainly content 
myself with the pack for Modestine, and take the follow- 
ing items for my own share of the portage: a cane, a 
quart flask, a pilot-jacket heavily weighted in the pockets, 5 
two pounds of black bread, and an open basket full of 
meats and bottles. I believe I may say I am not devoid of 
greatness of soul ; for I did not recoil from this infamous 
burden. I disposed it, Heaven knows how, so as to be 
mildly portable, and then proceeded to steer Modestine 10 
through the village. She tried, as was indeed her in- 
variable habit, to enter every house and every courtyard 
in the whole length; and, encumbered as I was, without 
a hand to help myself, no words can render an idea of my 
difficulties. A priest, with six or seven others, was exam- 15 
ining a church in process of repair, and he and his acolytes 
laughed loudly as they saw my plight. I remembered 
having laughed myself when I had seen good men strug- 
gling with adversity in the person of a jackass, and the 
recollection filled me with penitence. That was in my 20 
old light days, before this trouble came upon me. God 
knows at least that I shall never laugh again, thought I. 
But O, what a cruel thing is a farce to those engaged in it ! 
A little out of the village, Modestine, filled with the 
demon, set her heart upon a by-road, and positively re- 25 
fused to leave it. I dropped all my bundles, and, I am 
ashamed to say, struck the poor sinner twice across the 
face. It was pitiful to see her lift up her head with shut 
eyes, as if waiting for another blow. I came very near 
crying; but I did a wiser thing than that, and sat squarely 30 
down by the roadside to consider my situation under the 
cheerful influence of tobacco and a nip of brandy. Modes- 
tine, in the meanwhile, munched some black bread with a 
contrite hypocritical air. It was plain that I must make 



150 Travels with a Donkey 

a sacrifice to the gods of shipwreck. I threw away the 
empty bottle destined to carry milk; I threw away my 
own white bread, and, disdaining to act by general aver- 
age, kept the black bread for Modestine; lastly, I threw 
5 away the cold leg of mutton and the egg-whisk, although 
this last was dear to my heart. Thus I found room for 
everything in the basket, and even stowed the boating-coat 
on the top. By means of an end of cord I slung it under 
one arm ; and although the cord cut my shoulder, and the 

10 jacket hung almost to the ground, it was with a heart 
greatly lightened that I set forth again. 

I had now an arm free to thrash Modestine, and cruelly 
I chastised her. If I were to reach the lakeside before 
dark, she must bestir her little shanks to some tune. Al- 

15 ready the sun had gone down into a windy-looking mist ; 
and although there w r ere still a few streaks of gold far 
off to the east on the hills and the black fir-woods, all 
was cold and gray about our onward path. An infinity of 
little country by-roads led hither and thither among the 

20 fields. It was the most pointless labyrinth. I could see 
my destination overhead, or rather the peak that domi- 
nates it; but choose as I pleased, the roads always ended 
by turning away from it, and sneaking back towards the 
valley, or northward along the margin of the hills. The 

25 failing light, the waning color, the naked, unhomely, stony 
country through which I was traveling, threw me into 
some despondency. I promise you, the stick was not idle ; 
I think every decent step that Modestine took must have 
cost me at least two emphatic blows. There was not 

30 another sound in the neighborhood but that of my un- 
wearying bastinado. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the load once more 
bit the dust, and, as by enchantment, all the cords were 
simultaneously loosened, and the road scattered with my 



The Green Donkey-Driver 151 

dear possessions. The packing was to begin again from 
the beginning; and as I had to invent a new and better 
system, I do not doubt but I lost half an hour. It began 
to be dusk in earnest as I reached a wilderness of turf 
and stones. It had the air of being a road which should 5 
lead everywhere at the same time; and I was falling into 
something not unlike despair when I saw two figures 
stalking towards me over the stones. They walked one 
behind the other like tramps, but their pace was re- 
markable. The son led the way, a tall, ill-made, somber, 10 
Scotch-looking man; the mother followed, all in her 
Sunday's best, with an elegantly embroidered ribbon to her 
cap, and a new felt hat atop, and proffering, as she strode 
along with kilted petticoats, a string of obscene and blas- 
phemous oaths. 15 

I hailed the son and asked him my direction. He 
pointed loosely west and northwest, muttered an in- 
audible comment, and, without slacking his pace for an 
instant, stalked on, as he was going, right athwart my 
path. The mother followed without so much as raising 20 
her head. I shouted and shouted after them, but they 
continued to scale the hillside, and turned a deaf ear to 
my outcries. At last, leaving Modestine by herself, I was 
constrained to run after them, hailing the while. They 
stopped as I drew near, the mother still cursing; and I 25 
could see she was a handsome, motherly, respectable- 
looking woman. The son once more answered me roughly 
and inaudibly, and was for setting out again. But this 
time I simply collared the mother, who was nearest me, 
and, apologizing for my violence, declared that I could 30 
not let them go until they had put me on my road. They 
were neither of them offended — rather mollified than 
otherwise; told me I had only to follow them; and then 
the mother asked me what I wanted by the lake at such 



152 Travels with a Donkey 

an hour. I replied, in the Scotch manner, by inquiring if 
she had far to go herself. She told me, with another 
oath, that she had an hour and a half's road before her. 
And then, without salutation, the pair strode forward 
5 again up the hillside in the gathering dusk. 

I returned for Modestine, pushed her briskly forward, 
and, after a sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the 
edge of a plateau. The view, looking back on my day's 
journey, was both wild and sad. Mount Mezenc and the 

10 peaks beyond St. Julien stood out in trenchant gloom 
against a cold glitter in the east; and the intervening 
field of hills had fallen together into one broad wash of 
shadow, except here and there the outline of a wooded 
sugar-loaf in black, here and there a white irregular patch 

15 to represent a cultivated farm, and here and there a blot 
where the Loire, the Gazeille, or the Laussonne wandered 
in a gorge. 

Soon we were on a high-road, and surprise seized on 
my mind as I beheld a village of some magnitude close 

20 at hand ; for I had been told that the neighborhood of 
the lake was uninhabited except by trout. The road 
smoked in the twilight with children driving home cattle 
from the fields; and a pair of mounted stride-legged 
women, hat and cap and all, dashed past me at a ham- 

25 mering trot from the canton where they had been to 
church and market. I asked one of the children where I 
was. At Bouchet St. Nicolas, he told me. Thither, about 
a mile south of my destination, and on the other side 
of a respectable summit, had these confused roads and 

30 treacherous peasantry conducted me. My shoulder was 
cut, so that it hurt sharply; my arm ached like tooth- 
ache from perpetual beating; I gave up the lake and my 
design to camp, and asked for the auberge, 



CHAPTER III 



I HAVE A GOAD 



The auberge of Bouchet St. Nicolas was among the 
least pretentious I have ever visited ; but I saw many 
more of the like upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical 
of these French highlands. Imagine a cottage of two 
stories, with a bench before the door; the stable and 5 
kitchen in a suite, so that Modestine and I could hear 
each other dining; furniture of the plainest, earthen floors, 
a single bedchamber for travelers, and that without any 
convenience but beds. In the kitchen cooking and eating 
go forward side by side, and the family sleep at night. 10 
Any one who has a fancy to wash must do so in public at 
the common table. The food is sometimes spare ; hard 
fish and omelet have been my portion more than once; 
the wine is of the smallest; the brandy abominable to 
man; and the visit of a fat sow, grouting under the table 15 
and rubbing against your legs, is no impossible accompani- 
ment to dinner. 

But the people of the inn, in nine cases out of ten, 
show themselves friendly and considerate. As soon as 
you cross the doors you cease to be a stranger; and al- 20 
though these peasantry are rude and forbidding on the 
highway, they show a tincture of kind breeding when you 
share their hearth. At Bouchet, for instance, I uncorked 
my bottle of Beaujolais, and asked my host to join me. 
He would take but little. 25 

" I am an amateur of such wine, do you see?" he said, 
" and I am capable of leaving you not enough." 
i53 



154 Travels with a Donkey 

In these hedge-inns the traveler is expected to eat with 
his own knife; unless he ask, no other will be supplied: 
with a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, the table 
is completely laid. My knife was cordially admired by 
5 the landlord of Bouchet, and the spring filled him with 
wonder. 

" I should never have guessed that," he said. " I would 
bet," he added, weighing it in his hand, " that this cost 
you not less than five francs." 
10 When I told him it had cost me twenty, his jaw 
dropped. 

He was a mild, handsome, sensible, friendly old man, 
astonishingly ignorant. His wife, who was not so pleas- 
ant in her manners, knew how to read, although I do not 
15 suppose she ever did so. She had a share of brains and 
spoke with a cutting emphasis, like one who ruled the 
roast. 

" My man knows nothing," she said, with an angry 
nod; "he is like the beasts." 
20 And the old gentleman signified acquiescence with his 
head. There was no contempt on her part, and no shame 
on his; the facts were accepted loyally, and no more 
about the matter. 

I w T as tightly cross-examined about my journey; and 
25 the lady understood in a moment, and sketched out what 
I should put into my book when I got home. " Whether 
people harvest or not in such or such a place; if there 
were forests; studies of manners; what, for example, I 
and the master of the house say to you; the beauties of 
30 Nature, and all that." And she interrogated me with a 
look. 

"It is just that," said I. 

" You see," she added to her husband, " I understood 
that." 



I Have a Goad 155 

They were both much interested by the story of my 
misadventures. 

" In the morning," said the husband, " I will make you 
something better than your cane. Such a beast as that 
feels nothing; it is in the proverb — dur comme un ane; 5 
you might beat her insensible with a cudgel, and yet you 
would arrive nowhere." 

Something better! I little knew what he was 
offering. 

The sleeping-room was furnished with two beds. I 10 
had one; and I will own I was a little abashed to find a 
young man and his wife and child in the act of mounting 
into the other. This was my first experience of the sort; 
and if I am always to feel equally silly and extraneous, I 
pray God it be my last as well. I kept my eyes to myself, 15 
and know nothing of the woman except that she had 
beautiful arms, and seemed no whit embarrassed by my 
appearance. As a matter of fact, the situation was more 
trying to me than to the pair. A pair keep each other in 
countenance; it is the single gentleman who has to blush. 20 
But I could not help attributing my sentiments to the 
husband, and sought to conciliate his tolerance with a 
cup of brandy from my flask. He told me that he was a 
cooper of Alais traveling to St. Etienne in search of 
work, and that in his spare moments he followed the fatal 25 
calling of a maker of matches. Me he readily enough 
divined to be a brandy merchant. 

I was up first in the morning (Monday, September 23d), 
and hastened my toilet guiltily, so as to leave a clear 
field for madam, the cooper's wife. I drank a bowl of 30 
milk, and set off to explore the neighborhood of Bouchet. 
It was perishing cold, a gray, windy, wintry morning; 
misty clouds flew fast and low; the wind piped over the 
naked platform; and the only sp,eck of color was away 



156 Travels with a Donkey 

behind Mount Mezenc and the eastern hills, where the 
sky still wore the orange of the dawn. 

It was five in the morning, and four thousand feet above 
the sea; and I had to bury my hands in my pockets and 
5 trot. People were trooping out to the labors of the field 
by twos and threes, and all turned round to stare upon the 
stranger. I had seen them coming back last night, I saw 
them going afield again ; and there was the life of Bouchet 
in a nutshell. 

10 When I came back to the inn for a bit of breakfast, 
the landlady was in the kitchen combing out her daugh- 
ter's hair; and I made her my compliments upon its 
beauty. 

"O no," said the mother; "it is not so beautiful as it 

15 ought to be. Look, it is too fine." 

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse 
physical circumstances, and, by a startling democratic 
process, the defects of the majority decide the type of 
beauty. 

20 "And where," said I, "is monsieur?" 

" The master of the house is up-stairs," she answered, 
"making you a goad." 

Blessed be the man who invented goads! Blessed the 
innkeeper of Bouchet St. Nicolas, who introduced me to 

25 their use! This plain wand, with an eighth of an inch of 
pin, was indeed a scepter when he put it in my hands. 
Thenceforward Modestine was my slave. A prick, and 
she passed the most inviting stable-door. A prick, and 
she broke forth into a gallant little trotlet that devoured 

30 the miles. It was not a remarkable speed, when all was 
said; and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the 
best of it. But what a heavenly change since yesterday! 
No more wielding of the ugly cudgel; no more flailing 
with an aching arm; no more broad-sword exercise, but a 



I Have a Goad 157 

discreet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now 
and then a drop of blood should appear on Modestines 
mouse-colored wedge-like rump? I should have pre- 
ferred it otherwise, indeed ; but yesterday's exploits had 
purged my heart of all humanity. The perverse little 5 
devil, since she would not be taken with kindness, must 
even go with pricking. 

It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade of 
stride-legged ladies and a pair of post-runners, the road 
was dead solitary all the way to Pradelles. I scarce re- 10 
member an incident but one. A handsome foal with a 
bell about his neck came charging up to us upon a stretch 
of common, sniffed the air martially as one about to do 
great deeds, and, suddenly thinking otherwise in his green 
young heart, put about and galloped off as he had come, 15 
the bell tinkling in the wind. For a long while after- 
wards I saw his noble attitude as he drew up, and heard 
the note of his bell; and when I struck the high-road, the 
song of the telegraph-wires seemed to continue the same 
music. 20 

Pradelles stands on a hillside, high above the Allier, 
surrounded by rich meadows. They were cutting after- 
math on all sides, which gave the neighborhood, this 
gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. On the 
opposite bank of the Allier the land kept mounting for 25 
miles to the horizon ; a tanned and sallow autumn land- 
scape, with black blots of fir-wood and white roads wan- 
dering through the hills. Over all this the clouds shed 
a uniform and purplish shadow, sad and somewhat menac- 
ing, exaggerating height and distance, and throwing into 30 
still higher relief the twisted ribbons of the highway. It 
was a cheerless prospect, but one stimulating to a traveler. 
For I was now upon the limit of Velay, and all that I 
beheld lay in another country — wild Gevaudan, moun- 



158 Travels with a Donkey 

tainous, uncultivated, and but recently disforested from 
terror of the wolves. 

Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee the traveler's 
advance; and' you may trudge through all our comfort- 
5 able Europe, and not meet with an adventure worth the 
name. But here, if anywhere, a man was on the frontiers 
of hope. For this was the land of the ever-memorable 
Beast, the Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. What a 
career was his! He lived ten months at free quarters in 

10 Gevaudan and Vivarais; he ate women and children and 
"shepherdesses celebrated for their beauty;" he pursued 
armed horsemen; he has been seen at broad noonday chas- 
ing a postchaise and outrider along the king's high-road, 
and chaise and outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. 

15 He was placarded like a political offender, and ten thou- 
sand francs were offered for his head. And yet, when he 
was shot and sent to Versailles, behold! a common wolf, 
and even small for that. " Though I could reach from 
pole to pole," sang Alexander Pope; the Little Corporal 

20 shook Europe ; and if all wolves had been as this wolf, 
they would have changed the history of man. M. Elie 
Berthet has made him the hero of a novel, which I have 
read, and do not wish to read again. 

I hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the 

25 landlady's desire that I should visit our Lady of Pradelles, 
"who performed many miracles, although she was of 
wood ;" and before three-quarters of an hour I was goad- 
ing Modestine down the steep descent that leads to 
Langogne on the Allier. On both sides of the road, in 

30 big dusty fields, farmers were preparing for next Spring. 
Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked stolid oxen were 
patiently haling at the plow. I saw one of these mild 
formidable servants of the glebe, who took a sudden inter- 
est in Modestine and me. The furrow down which he was 



I Have a Goad 159 

journeying lay at an angle to the road, and his head was 
solidly fixed to the yoke like those of caryatides below 
a ponderous cornice ; but he screwed round his big honest 
eyes and followed us with a ruminating look, until his 
master bade him turn the plow and proceed to reascend 5 
the field. From all these furrowing plowshares, from 
the feet of oxen, from a laborer here and there who was 
breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the wind carried away 
a thin dust like so much smoke. It was a fine, busy, 
breathing, rustic landscape ; and as I continued to descend, 10 
the highlands of Gevaudan kept mounting in front of me 
against the sky. 

I had crossed the Loire the day before; now I was to 
cross the Allier; so near are these two confluents in their 
youth. Just at the bridge of Langogne, as the long-prom- 15 
ised rain was beginning to fall, a lassie of some seven or 
eight addressed me in the sacramental phrase, " D'oii'st 
que vous venezf " She said it with so high an air that 
she set me laughing; and this cut her to the quick. She 
was evidently one who reckoned on respect, and stood 20 
looking after me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed the bridge 
and entered the county of Gevaudan. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 



"The way also here was very wearisome through dirt and 
slabbiness ; nor was there on all this ground so much as one 
inn or victualing-house wherein to refresh the feebler 
sort."— Pilgrim's Progress. 



CHAPTER IV 



A CAMP IN THE DARK 



The next day (Tuesday, September 24th), it was two 
o'clock in the afternoon before I got my journal written 
up and my knapsack repaired, for I was determined to 
carry my knapsack in the future and have no more ado 
with baskets; and half an hour afterwards I set out for 5 
Le Cheylard l'Eveque, a place on the borders of the forest 
of Mercoire. A man, I was told, should walk there in an 
hour and a half; and I thought it scarce too ambitious to 
suppose that a man encumbered with a donkey might 
cover the same distance in four hours. 10 

All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained 
and hailed alternately; the wind kept freshening stead- 
ily, although slowly; plentiful hurrying clouds — some 
dragging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and 
luminous as though promising snow — careered out of 15 
the north and followed me along my way. I was soon 
out of the cultivated basin of the Allier, and away from 
the plowing oxen, and such-like sights of the country. 
Moor, heathery marsh, tracts of rock and pines, woods of 
birch all jeweled with the autumn yellow, here and there 20 
a few naked cottages and bleak fields, — these were the 
characters of the country. Hill and valley followed valley 
and hill ; the little green and stony cattle-tracks wandered 
in and out of one another, split into three or four, died 
away in marshy hollows, and began again sporadically on 25 
hillsides or at the borders of a wood. 
163 



164 Travels with a Donkey 

There was no direct road to Cheylard, and it was no 
easy affair to make a passage in this uneven country and 
through this intermittent labyrinth of tracks. It must 
have been about four when I struck Sagnerousse, and 
5 went on my way rejoicing in a sure point of departure. 
Two hours afterwards, the dusk rapidly falling, in a lull 
of the wind, I issued from a fir-wood where I had long 
been wandering, and found, not the looked-for village, 
but another marish bottom among rough-and-tumble hills. 

10 For some time past I had heard the ringing of cattle-bells 
ahead ; and now, as I came out of the skirts of the wood, 
I saw near upon a dozen cows and perhaps as many more 
black figures, which I conjectured to be children, although 
the mist had almost unrecognizably exaggerated their 

15 forms. These were all silently following each other round 
and round in a circle, now taking hands, now breaking 
up with chains and reverences. A dance of children ap- 
peals to very innocent and lively thoughts; but, at night- 
fall on the marshes, the thing was eerie and fantastic to 

20 behold. Even I, who am well enough read in Herbert 
Spencer, felt a sort of silence fall for an instant on 
my mind. The next, I was pricking Modestine forward, 
and guiding her like an unruly ship through the open. In 
a path, she went doggedly ahead of her own accord, as be- 

25 fore a fair wind ; but once on the turf or among heather, 
and the brute became demented. The tendency of lost 
travelers to go round in a circle was developed in her to 
the degree of passion, and it took all the steering I had in 
me to keep even a decently straight course through a 

30 single field. 

While I was thus desperately tacking through the bog, 
children and cattle began to disperse, until only a pair of 
girls remained behind. From these I sought direction on 
my path. The peasantry in general were but little dis- 



A Camp in the Dark 165 

posed to counsel a wayfarer. One old devil simply re- 
tired into his house, and barricaded the door on my 
approach; and I might beat and shout myself hoarse, he 
turned a deaf ear. Another, having given me a direction 
which, as I found afterwards, I had misunderstood, com- 5 
placently watched me going wrong without adding a sign. 
He did not care a stalk of parsley if I wandered all night 
upon the hills! As for these two girls, they were 2. pair 
of impudent sly sluts, with not a thought but mischief. 
One put out her tongue at me, the other bade me follow 10 
the cows; and they both giggled and jogged each other's 
elbows. The Beast of Gevaudan ate about a hundred 
children of this district; I began to think of him with 
sympathy. 

Leaving the girls, I pushed on through the bog, and got 15 
into another wood and upon a well-marked road. It grew 
darker and darker. Modestine, suddenly beginning to 
smell mischief, bettered the pace of her own accord, 
and from that time forward gave me no trouble. It was 
the first sign of intelligence I had occasion to remark in 20 
her. At the same time, the wind freshened into half a 
gale, and another heavy discharge of rain came flying 
up out of the north. At the other side of the wood I 
sighted some red windows in the dusk. This was the 
hamlet of Fouzilhic; three houses on a hillside, near a 25 
wood of birches. Here I found a delightful old man, who 
came a little way with me in the rain to put me safely 
on the road for Cheylard. He would hear of no reward ; 
but shook his hands above his head almost as if in menace, 
and refused volubly and shrilly, in unmitigated patois. 30 

All seemed right at last. My thoughts began to turn 
upon dinner and a fireside, and my heart was agreeably 
softened in my bosom. Alas, and I was on the brink of 
new and greater miseries! Suddenly, at a single swoop, 



1 66 Travels with a Donkey 

the night fell. I have been abroad in many a black night, 
but never in a blacker. A glimmer of rocks, a glimmer of 
the track where it was well beaten, a certain fleecy density, 
or night within night, for a tree, — this was all that I 
5 could discriminate. The sky was simply darkness over- 
head; even the flying clouds pursued their way invisibly 
to human eyesight. I could not distinguish my hand at 
arm's length from the track, nor my goad, at the same dis- 
tance, from the meadows or the sky. 

10 Soon the road that I was following split, after the 
fashion of the country, into three or four in a piece of 
rocky meadow. Since Mo destine had shown such a fancy 
for beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this predicament. 
But the instinct of an ass is what might be expected from 

15 the name; in half a minute she was clambering round and 
round among some boulders, as lost a donkey as you would 
wish to see. I should have camped long before had I 
been properly provided; but as this was to be so short a 
stage, I had brought no wine, no bread for myself, and 

20 little over a pound for my lady-friend. Add to this, that 
I and Modestine were both handsomely wetted by the 
showers. But now, if I could have found some water, I 
should have camped at once in spite of all. Water, how- 
ever, being entirely absent, except in the form of rain, I 

25 determined to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a guide a little 
further on my way — " a little farther lend thy guiding 
hand." 

The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In 
this sensible roaring blackness I was sure of nothing but 

30 the direction of the wind. To this I set my face ; the 
road had disappeared,, and I went across country, now in 
marshy opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to Modes- 
tine, until I came once more in sight of some red windows. 
This time they were differently disposed. It was not Fou- 



A Camp in the Dark 167 

zilhic, but Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the other 
in space, but worlds away in the spirit of its inhabitants. 
I tied Modestine to a gate, and groped forward, stumbling 
among rocks, plunging mid-leg in bog, until I gained the 
entrance of the village. In the first lighted house there 5 
was a woman who would not open to me. She could do 
nothing, she cried to me through the door, being alone 
and lame; but if I would apply at the next house, there 
was a man who could help me if he had a mind. 

They came to the next door in force, a man, two 10 
women, and a girl, and brought a pair of lanterns to 
examine the wayfarer. The man was not ill-looking, but 
had a shifty smile. He leaned against the door-post, and 
heard me state my case. All I asked was a guide as far 
as Cheylard. 15 

" Cest que, voyez-vous, il fait noir," said he. 

I told him that was just my reason for requiring help. 

"I understand that," said he, looking uncomfortable; 
" mais — cest — de la peine" 

I was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I 20 
rose as high as ten francs; but he continued to shake his 
head. " Name your own price, then," said I. 

" Ce nest pas qa" he said at length, and with evident 
difficulty; "but I am not going to cross the door — metis 
je ne sortirai pas de la ported 25 

I grew a little warm, and asked him what he proposed 
that I should do. 

"Where are you going beyond Cheylard?" he asked 
by way of answer. 

" That is no affair of yours," I returned, for I was not 30 
going to indulge his bestial curiosity; "it changes noth- 
ing in my present predicament." 

" C'est vrai, qa" he acknowledged, with a laugh ; " qui, 
cest vrai. Et d'ou venez-vous?" 



1 68 Travels with a Donkey 

A better man than I might have felt nettled. 

" O," said I, " I am not going to answer any of your 

questions, so you may spare yourself the trouble of putting 

them. I am late enough already; I want help. If you 

5 will not guide me yourself, at least help me to find some 

one else who will." 

" Hold on," he cried sudden^. " Was it not you who 
passed in the meadow while it was still day? " 

"Yes, yes," said the girl, whom I had not hitherto 
10 recognized; "it was monsieur; I told him to follow the 
cow." 

"As for you, mademoiselle," said I, "you are a 
farceuse." 

"And," added the man, "what the devil have you done 
15 to be still here? " 

What the devil, indeed! But there I was. "The great 
thing," said I, "is to make an end of it;" and once more 
proposed that he should help me to find a guide. 

" C'est que," he said again, " cest que — il fait noir." 
20 "Very well," said I; "take one of your lanterns." 

" No," he cried, drawing a thought backward, and 
again intrenching himself behind one of his former 
phrases; "I will not cross the door." 

I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on 

2$ his face with unaffected shame ; he was smiling pitifully 

and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected 

schoolboy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked 

him what I was to do. 

" I don't know," he said; " I will not cross the door." 
30 Here was the Beast of Gevaudan, and no mistake. 

" Sir," said I, with my most commanding manners, 
" you are a coward." 

And with that I turned my back upon the family party, 
w T ho hastened to retire within their fortifications; and the 



A Camp in the Dark 169 

famous door was closed again, but not till I had overheard 
the sound of laughter. Film barbara pater barbarior. 
Let me say it in the plural: the Beasts of Gevaudan. 

The lanterns had somewhat dazzled me, and I plowed 
distressfully among stones and rubbish-heaps. All the 5 
other houses in the village were both dark and silent ; and 
though I knocked at here and there a door, my knock- 
ing w T as unanswered. It was a bad business; I gave up 
Fouzilhac with my curses. The rain had stopped, and 
the wind, which still kept rising, began to dry my coat 10 
and trousers. " Very well," thought I, " water or no 
water, I must camp." But the first thing was to return 
to Modestine. I am pretty sure I was twenty minutes 
groping for my lady in the dark; and if it had not been 
for the unkindly services of the bog, into which I once 15 
more stumbled, I might have still been groping for her at 
the dawn. My next business was to gain the shelter of a 
wood, for the wind was cold as well as boisterous. How, 
in this well-wooded district, I should have been so long in 
finding one, is another of the insoluble mysteries of this 20 
day's adventures; but I will take my oath that I put 
near an hour to the discovery. 

At last black trees began to show upon my left, and, 
suddenly crossing the road, made a cave of unmitigated 
blackness right in front. I call it a cave without exag- 25 
geration ; to pass below that arch of leaves was like 
entering a dungeon. I felt about until my hand encoun- 
tered a stout branch, and to this I tied Modestine, a hag- 
gard, drenched, desponding donkey. Then I lowered my 
pack, laid it along the wall on the margin of the road, 30 
and unbuckled the straps. I knew well enough where 
the lantern was ; but where were the candles ? I groped and 
groped among the tumbled articles, and, while I w T as thus 
groping, suddenly I touched the spirit-lamp. Salvation! 



170 Travels with a Donkey 

This would serve my turn as well. The wind roared 
unwearyingly among the trees; I could hear the boughs 
tossing and the leaves churning through half a mile of 
forest; yet the scene of my encampment was not only as 
5 black as a pit, but admirably sheltered. At the second 
match the wick caught flame. The light was both livid 
and shifting; but it cut me off from the universe, and 
doubled the darkness of the surrounding night. 

I tied Modestine more conveniently for herself, and 

jo broke up half the black bread for her supper, reserving 
the other half against the morning. Then I gathered 
what I should want within reach, took off my wet boots 
and gaiters, which I wrapped in my water-proof, arranged 
my knapsack for a pillow under the flap of my sleeping- 

15 bag, insinuated my limbs into the interior, and buckled 
myself in like a bambino. I opened a tin of Bologna 
sausage and broke a cake of chocolate, and that was all 
I had to eat. It' may sound offensive, but I ate them 
together, bite by bite, by way of bread and meat. All 

20 I had to wash down this revolting mixture was neat 
brandy: a revolting beverage in itself. But I was rare 
and hungry; ate well, and smoked one of the best ciga- 
rettes in my experience. Then I put a stone in my straw 
hat, pulled the flap of my fur cap over my neck and eyes, 

25 put my revolver ready to my hand, and snuggled well 
down among the sheepskins. 

I questioned at first if I were sleepy, for I felt my heart 
beating faster than usual, as if with an agreeable ex- 
citement to which my mind remained a stranger. But 

30 as soon as my eyelids touched, that subtle glue leaped 
between them, and they would no more come separate. 
The wind among the trees was my lullaby. Sometimes 
it sounded for minutes together with a steady even rush, 
not rising nor abating ; and again it would swell and burst 



A Camp in the Dark 171 

like a great crashing breaker, and the trees would patter 
me all over with big drops from the rain of the afternoon. 
Night after night, in my own bed-room in the country, 
I have given ear to this perturbing concert of the wind 
among the woods; but whether it was a difference in the 5 
trees, or the lie of the ground, or because I was myself 
outside and in the midst of it, the fact remains that 
the wind sang to a different tune among these woods of 
Gevaudan. I hearkened and hearkened; and meanwhile 
sleep took gradual possession of my body and subdued 10 
my thoughts and senses; but still my last waking effort 
was to listen and distinguish, and my last conscious state 
was one of wonder at the foreign clamor in my ears. 

Twice in the course of the dark hours — once when a 
stone galled me underneath the sack, and again when the 15 
poor patient Modestine, growing angry, pawed and 
stamped upon the road — I was recalled for a brief while 
to consciousness, and saw a star or two overhead, and the 
lace-like edge of the foliage against the sky. When I 
awoke for the third time (Wednesday, September 25th), 20 
the world was flooded with a blue light, the mother of the 
dawn. I saw the leaves laboring in the wind and the 
ribbon of the road; and, on turning my head, there was 
Modestine tied to a beech, and standing half across the 
path in an attitude of inimitable patience. I closed my 25 
eyes again, and set to thinking over the experience of the 
night. I was surprised to find how easy and pleasant it 
had been, even in this tempestuous weather. The stone 
which annoyed me would not have been there, had I not 
been forced to camp blindfold in the opaque night; and 30 
I had felt no other inconvenience except when my feet 
encountered the lantern or the second volume of Peyrat's 
Pastors of the Desert among the mixed contents of my 
sleeping-bag; nay more, I had felt not a touch of cold, 



172 Travels with a Donkey 

and awakened with unusually lightsome and clear sensa- 
tions. 

With that, I shook myself, got once more into my 
boots and gaiters, and breaking up the rest of the bread 
5 for Modestlne, strolled about to see in what part of the 
world I had awakened. Ulysses, left on Ithaca, and with 
a mind unsettled by the goddess, was not more pleasantly 
astray. I have been after an adventure all my life, a 
pure dispassionate adventure, such as befell early and 

10 heroic voyagers ; and thus to be found by morning in a 
random woodside nook in Gevaudan — not knowing north 
from south, as strange to my surroundings as the first 
man upon the earth, an inland castaway — was to find 
a fraction of my day-dreams realized. I was on the skirts 

15 of a little w r ood of birch, sprinkled w T ith a few beeches; 
behind, it adjoined another wood of fir; and in front, it 
broke up and went down in open order into a shallow and 
meadowy dale. All around there were bare hill-tops, some 
near, some far away, as the perspective closed or opened, 

20 but none apparently much higher than the rest. The wind 
huddled the trees. The golden specks of autumn in the 
birches tossed shiveringly. Overhead the sky was full 
of strings and shreds of vapor, flying, vanishing, reap- 
pearing, and turning about an axis like tumblers, as the 

25 wind hounded them through heaven. It was w T ild 
weather and famishing cold. I ate some chocolate, swal- 
lowed a mouthful of brandy, and smoked a cigarette before 
the cold should have time to disable my fingers. And 
by the time I had got all this done, and made my pack 

30 and bound it on the pack-saddle, the day was tiptoe on 
the threshold of the east. We had not gone many steps 
along the lane, before the sun, still invisible to me, sent a 
glow of gold over some cloud mountains that lay ranged 
along the eastern sky. 



A Camp in the Dark 173 

The wind had us on the stern, and hurried us bitingly 
forward. I buttoned myself into my coat, and walked 
on in a pleasant frame of mind with all men, when sud- 
denly, at a corner, there was Fouzilhic once more in front 
of me. Nor only that, but there was the old gentleman 5 
who had escorted me so far the night before, running out 
of his house at sight of me, with hands upraised in horror. 

"My poor boy!" he cried, " w T hat does this mean?" 

I told him what had happened. He beat his old hands 
like clappers in a mill, to think how lightly he had let me 10 
go; but when he heard of the man of Fouzilhac, anger 
and depression seized upon his mind. 

" This time, at least," said he, " there shall be no mis- 
take." 

And he limped along, for he was very rheumatic, for 15 
about half a mile, and until I was almost within sight of 
Cheylard, the destination I had hunted for so long. 



CHAPTER V 



CHEYLARD AND LUC 



Candidly, It seemed little worthy of all this searching. 
A few broken ends of village, with no particular street, 
but a succession of open places heaped with logs and 
fagots; a couple of tilted crosses, a shrine to our Lady of 
5 all Graces on the summit of a little hill; and all this, 
upon a rattling highland river, in the corner of a naked 
valley. What went ye out for to see? thought I to my- 
self. But the place had a life of its own. I found a 
board commemorating the liberalities of Cheylard for the 

10 past year, hung up, like a banner, in the diminutive and 
tottering church. In 1877, it appeared, the inhabitants 
subscribed forty-eight francs ten centimes for the " Work 
of the Propagation of the Faith." Some of this, I could 
not help hoping, would be applied to my native land. 

15 Cheylard scrapes together halfpence for the darkened 
souls in Edinburgh; while Balquidder and Dunrossness 
bemoan the ignorance of Rome. Thus, to the high enter- 
tainment of the angels, do we pelt each other with 
evangelists, like schoolboj^s bickering in the snow. 

20 The inn was again singularly unpretentious. The 
whole furniture of a not ill-to-do family was in the 
kitchen: the beds, the cradle, the clothes, the plate-rack, 
the meal-chest, and the photograph of the parish priest. 
There were five children, one of whom was set to its 

25 morning prayers at the stair-foot soon after my arrival, 
and a sixth would ere long be forthcoming. I was kindly 
174 



Cheylard and Luc 175 

received by these good folk. The}' were much interested 
in my misadventure. The wood in which I had slept 
belonged to them; the man of Fouzilhac they thought a 
monster of iniquity, and counseled me warmly to summon 
him at law — "because I might have died." The good 5 
wife was horror-stricken to see me drink over a pint of un- 
creamed milk. 

" You will do yourself an evil," she said. " Permit me 
to boil it for you." 

After I had begun the morning on this delightful liquor, 10 
she having an infinity of things to arrange, I was per- 
mitted, nay requested, to make a bowl of chocolate for 
myself. My boots and gaiters were hung up to dry, and, 
seeing me trying to write my journal on my knee, the 
eldest daughter let down a hinged table in the chimney- 15 
corner for my convenience. Here I wrote, drank my 
chocolate, and finally ate an omelet before I left. The 
table was thick with dust; for, as they explained, it was 
not used except in winter weather. I had a clear look up 
the vent, through brown agglomerations of soot and blue 20 
vapor, to the sky; and whenever a handful of twigs was 
thrown on to the fire, my legs were scorched by the blaze. 

The husband had begun life as a muleteer, and when I 
came to charge Modestine showed himself full of the pru- 
dence of his art. "You will have to change this pack- 25 
age," said he; "it ought to be in two parts, and then you 
might have double the weight." 

I explained that I wanted no more weight; and for no 
donkey hitherto created would I cut my sleeping-bag in 
two. 30 

"It fatigues her, however," said the inn-keeper; "it 
fatigues her greatly on the march. Look." 

Alas, there were her two forelegs no better than raw 
beef on the inside, and blood was running from under her 



176 Travels with a Donkey 

tail. They told me when I left, and I was ready to be- 
lieve it, that before a few days I should come to love 
Modestine like a dog. Three days had passed, we had 
shared some misadventures, and my heart was still as cold 
5 as a potato towards my beast of burden. She was pretty 
enough to look at; but then she had given proof of dead 
stupidity, redeemed indeed by patience, but aggravated 
by flashes of sorry and ill-judged light-heartedness. And 
I own this new discovery seemed another point against 

10 her. What the devil was the good of a she-ass if she 
could not carry a sleeping-bag and a few necessaries? I 
saw the end of the fable rapidly approaching, when I 
should have to carry Modestine. ZEsop was the man to 
know the world! I assure you I set out with heavy 

15 thoughts upon my short day's march. 

It was not only heavy thoughts about Modestine that 
weighted me upon the way; it was a leaden business al- 
together. For first, the wind blew so rudely that I had 
to hold on the pack with one hand from Cheylard to 

20 Luc; and second, my road lay through one of the most 
beggarly countries in the world. It was like the worst of 
the Scotch Highlands, only worse; cold, naked, and ig- 
noble, scant of wood, scant of heather, scant of life. A 
road and some fences broke the unvarying waste, and the 

25 line of the road was marked by upright pillars, to serve 
in time of snow. 

Why any one should desire to visit either Luc or Chey- 
lard is more than my much-inventing spirit can suppose. 
For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I 

30 travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move; 
to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; 
to come down off this feather-bed of civilization, and find 
the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting 
flints. Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccu- 



Cheylard and Luc 177 

pied with our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must 
be worked for. To hold a pack upon a pack-saddle 
against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, 
but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind. 
And when the present is so exacting, who can annoy him- 5 
self about the future? 

I came out at length above the Allier. A more un- 
sightly prospect at this season of the year it would be 
hard to fancy. Shelving hills rose round it on all sides, 
here dabbled with wood and fields, there rising to peaks 10 
alternately naked and hairy with pines. The color 
throughout was black or ashen, and came to a point in the 
ruins of the castle of Luc, which pricked up impudently 
from below my feet, carrying on a pinnacle a tall white 
statue of Our Lady, which, I heard with interest, weighed 15 
fifty quintals, and was to be dedicated on the 6th of 
October. Through this sorry landscape trickled the Allier 
and a tributary of nearly equal size, which came down 
to join it through a broad nude valley in Vivarais. The 
weather had somewhat lightened, and the clouds massed 20 
in squadron ; but the fierce wind still hunted them through 
heaven, and cast great ungainly splashes of shadow and 
sunlight over the scene. 

Luc itself was a straggling double file of houses wedged 
between hill and river. It had no beauty, nor was there 25 
any notable feature, save the old castle overhead with its 
fifty quintals of brand-new Madonna. But the inn was 
clean and large. The kitchen, w T ith its two box-beds 
hung with clean check curtains, with its wide stone chim- 
ney, its chimney-shelf four yards long and garnished with 30 
lanterns and religious statuettes, its array of chests and 
pair of ticking clocks, was the very model of what a 
kitchen ought to be; a melodrama kitchen, suitable for 
bandits or noblemen in disguise. Nor was the scene dis- 



178 Travels with a Donkey 

graced by the landlady, a handsome, silent, dark old 
woman, clothed and hooded in black like a nun. Even 
the public bedroom had a character of its own, with the 
long deal tables and benches, where fifty might have 

5 dined, set out as for a harvest-home, and the three box- 
beds along the wall. In one of these, lying on straw and 
covered with a pair of table-napkins, did I do penance 
all night long in goose-flesh and chattering teeth, and 
sigh from time to time as I awakened for my sheepskin 

10 sack and the lee of some great wood. 



OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 

I behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere— 
And what am I, that I am here? 

Matthew Arnold. 



CHAPTER VI 



FATHER APOLLIXARIS 



Next morning (Thursday, 26th September) I took the 
road in a new order. The sack was no longer doubled, 
but hung at full length across the saddle, a green sausage 
six feet long with a tuft of blue wool hanging out of 
either end. It was more picturesque, it spared the don- 5 
key, and, as I began to see, it would insure stability, blow 
high, blow low. But it was not without a pang that I 
had so decided. For although I had purchased a new 
cord and made all as fast as I was able, I was yet jealously 
uneasy lest the flaps should tumble out and scatter my 10 
effects along the line of march. 

My way lay up the bald valley of the river, along the 
march of Vivarais and Gevaudan. The hills of Gevaudan 
on the right were a little more naked, if anything, than 
those of Vivarais upon the left, and the former had a 15 
monopoly of a low dotty underwood that grew thickly 
in the gorges and died out in solitary burrs upon the 
shoulders and the summits. Black bricks of fir-wood 
were plastered here and there upon both sides, and here 
and there were cultivated fields. A railway ran beside the 20 
river ; the only bit of railway in Gevaudan, although there 
are many proposals afoot and surveys being made, and 
even, as they tell me, a station standing ready built in 
Mende. A year or two hence and this may be another 
world. The desert is beleaguered. Now may some Lan- 25 
guedocian Wordsworth turn the sonnet into patois: 



1 82 Travels with a Donkey 

" Mountains and vales and floods, heard ye that 
whistle?" 

At a place called La Bastide I was directed to leave the 
river, and follow a road that mounted on the left among 
5 the hills of Vivarais, the modern Ardeche ; for I was now 
come within a little way of my strange destination, the 
Trappist monastery of Our Lady of the Snows. The sun 
came out as I left the shelter of a pine-wood, and I beheld 
suddenly a fine wild landscape to the south. High rocky 

10 hills, as blue as sapphire, closed the view, and between 
these lay ridge upon ridge, heathery, craggy, the sun glit- 
tering on veins of rock, the underwood clambering in the 
hollows, as rude as God made them at the first. There 
was not a sign of man's hand in all the prospect; and in- 

15 deed not a trace of his passage, save where generation after 
generation had walked in twisted footpaths, in and out 
among the beeches, and up and down upon the channeled 
slopes. The mists, which had hitherto beset me, were 
now broken into clouds, and fled swiftly and shone brightly 

20 in the sun. I drew a long breath. I was grateful to 
come, after so long, upon a scene of some attraction for 
the human heart. I own I like definite form in what my 
eyes are to rest upon; and if landscapes were sold, like 
the sheets of characters of my boyhood, one penny plain 

25 and twopence colored, I should go the length of twopence 
every day of my life. 

But if things had grown better to the south, it was still 
desolate and inclement near at hand. A spidery cross 
on every hilltop marked the neighborhood of a religious 

30 house ; and a quarter of a mile beyond, the outlook south- 
ward opening out and growing bolder with every step, 
a white statue of the Virgin at the corner of a young 
plantation directed the traveler to Our Lady of the 
Snows, Here, then. I struck leftward, and pursued my 



Father Apollinaris 183 

way, driving my secular donkey before me, and creaking in 
my secular boots and gaiters, towards the asylum of silence. 

I had not gone very far ere the wind brought to me 
the clanging of a bell, and somehow, I can scarce tell why, 
my heart sank within me at the sound. I have rarely 5 
approached anything with more unaffected terror than the 
monastery of Our Lady of the Snows. This it is to have 
had a Protestant education. And suddenly, on turning 
a corner, fear took hold on me from head to foot — slavish 
superstitious fear; and though I did not stop in my ad- 10 
vance, yet I went on slowly, like a man who should have 
passed a bourne unnoticed, and strayed into the country 
of the dead. For there upon the narrow new-made road, 
between the stripling pines, was a mediaeval friar, fight- 
ing with a barrowful of turfs. Every Sunday of my 15 
childhood I used to study the Hermits of Marco Sadeler — 
enchanting prints, full of wood and field and mediaeval 
landscapes, as large as a county, for the imagination to go 
a-traveling in; and here, sure enough, was one of Marco 
Sadeler's heroes. He was robed in white like any specter, 20 
and the hood falling back, in the instancy of his conten- 
tion with the barrow, disclosed a pate as bald and yellow 
as a skull. He might have been buried any time these 
thousand years, and all the lively parts of him resolved 
into earth and broken up with the farmer's harrow. 25 

I was troubled besides in my mind as to etiquette. 
Durst I address a person who was under a vow of silence ? 
Clearly not. But drawing near, I doffed my cap to him 
with a far-away superstitious reverence. He nodded back, 
and cheerfully addressed me. Was I going to the mon- 30 
astery? Who was I? An Englishman? Ah, an Irish- 
man, then? 

" No," I said, " a Scotsman." 

A Scotsman? Ah, he had never seen a Scotsman before. 



184 Travels with a Donkey 

And he looked me all over, his good, honest, brawny 
countenance shining with interest, as a boy might look 
upon a lion or an alligator. From him I learned with 
disgust that I could not be received at Our Lady of the 
5 Snows ; I might get a meal, perhaps, but that was all. 
And then, as our talk ran on, and it turned out that I was 
not a pedlar, but a literary man, who drew landscapes and 
was going to write a book, he changed his manner of think- 
ing as to my reception (for I fear they respect persons 

10 even in a Trappist monastery), and told me I must be sure 
to ask for the Father Prior, and state my case to him in 
full. On second thoughts he determined to go down with 
me himself; he thought he could manage for me better. 
Might he say that I was a geographer? 

15 No; I thought, in the interests of truth, he positively 
might not. 

" Very well, then " (with disappointment), " an author." 

It appeared he had been in a seminary with six young 

Irishmen, all priests long since, who had received news- 

20 papers and kept him informed of the state of ecclesiastical 
affairs in England. And he asked me eagerly after Dr. 
Pusey, for whose conversion the good man had continued 
ever since to pray night and morning. 

" I thought he was very near the truth," he said ; " and 

25 he will reach it yet; there is so much virtue in prayer." 

He must be a stiff ungodly Protestant who can take 
anything but pleasure in this kind and hopeful story. 
While he was thus near the subject, the good father asked 
me if I were a Christian; and when he found I was 

30 not, or not after his way, he glossed it over with great 
good-will. 

The road which we were following, and which this stal- 
wart father had made with his own two hands within the 
space of a year, came to a corner, and showed us some 



Father Apollinaris 185 

white buildings a little further on beyond the wood. At 
the same time, the bell once more sounded abroad. We 
were hard upon the monastery. Father Apollinaris (for 
that was my companion's name) stopped me. 

" I must not speak to you down there," he said. " Ask 5 
for the Brother Porter, and all will be well. But try to 
see me as you go out again through the wood, where I 
may speak to you. I am charmed to have made your 
acquaintance." 

And then suddenly raising his arms, flapping his fingers, 10 
and crying out twice, " I must not speak, I must not 
speak! " he ran away in front of me and disappeared into 
the monastery-door. 

I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity went a good 
way to revive my terrors. But where one was so good 15 
and simple, why should not all be alike? I took heart of 
grace, and went forward to the gate as fast as Modestine, 
who seemed to have a disaffection for monasteries, would 
permit. It was the first door, in my acquaintance of her, 
which she had not shown an indecent haste to enter. I 20 
summoned the place in form, though with a quaking heart. 
Father Michael, the Father Hospitaler, and a pair of 
brown-robed brothers came to the gate and spoke with 
me a while. I think my sack was the great attraction ; it 
had already beguiled the heart of poor Apollinaris, who 25 
had charged me on my life to show it to the Father Prior. 
But whether it was my address, or the sack, or the idea 
speedily published among that part of the brotherhood 
who attend on strangers that I was not a pedlar after all, 
I found no difficulty as to my reception. Modestine was 30 
led away by a layman to the stables, and I and my pack 
were received into Our Lady of the Snows. 



CHAPTER VII 



THE MONKS 



Father Michael, a pleasant, fresh-faced, smiling 
man, perhaps of thirty-five, took me to the pantry, and 
gave me a glass of liqueur to stay me until dinner. We 
had some talk, or rather I should say he listened to my 
5 prattle indulgently enough, but with an abstracted air, 
like a spirit with a thing of clay. And truly when I re- 
member that I descanted principally on my appetite, and 
that it must have been by that time more than eighteen 
hours since Father Michael had so much as broken bread, 

10 I can well understand that he would find an earthly 
savor in my conversation. But his manner, though su- 
perior, was exquisitely gracious; and I find I have lurk- 
ing curiosity as to Father Michael's past. 

The whet administered, I was left alone for a little in 

15 the monastery garden. This is no more than the main 
court, laid out in sandy paths and beds of particolored 
dahlias, and with a fountain and a black statue of the 
Virgin in the center. The buildings stand around it four- 
square, bleak, as yet unseasoned by the years and weather, 

20 and with no other features than a belfry and a pair of 
slated gables. Brothers in white, brothers in brown, passed 
silently along the sanded alleys; and when I first came 
out, three hooded monks were kneeling on the terrace at 
their prayers. A naked hill commands the monastery 

25 upon one side, and the wood commands it on the other. 
It lies exposed to wind; the snow falls off and on from 
186 



The Monks 187 

October to May, and sometimes lies six weeks on end ; but 
if they stood in Eden, with a climate like heaven's, the 
buildings themselves would offer the same wintry and 
cheerless aspect; and for my part, on this wild September 
day, before I was called to dinner, I felt chilly in and out. 5 

When I had eaten well and heartily, Brother Ambrose, 
a hearty conversable Frenchman (for all those who wait 
on strangers have the liberty to speak), led me to a little 
room in that part of the building which is set apart for 
MM. les retraitants. It was clean and whitewashed, and 10 
furnished with strict necessaries, a crucifix, a bust of the 
late pope, the Imitation in French, a book of religious 
meditations, and the life of Elizabeth Seton, evangelist, it 
would appear, of North America and of New England in 
particular. As far as my experience goes, there is a fair 15 
field for some more evangelization in these quarters ; but 
think of Cotton Mather! I should like to give him a 
reading of this little book in heaven, where I hope he 
dwells; but perhaps he knows all that already, and much 
more; and perhaps he and Mrs. Seton are the dearest 20 
friends, and gladly unite their voices in the everlasting 
psalm. Over the table, to conclude the inventory of the 
room, hung a set of regulations for MM. les retraitants: 
what services they should attend, when they were to tell 
their beads or meditate and w T hen they were to rise and 25 
go to rest. At the foot was a notable N.B.: " Le temps 
libre est employe a Vexamen de conscience, a la confession, 
a faire de bonnes resolutions, etc." To make good reso- 
lutions, indeed! You might talk as fruitfully of making 
the hair grow on your head. 30 

I had scarce explored my niche when Brother Ambrose 
returned. An English boarder, it appeared, would like 
to speak with me. I professed my willingness, and the 
friar ushered in a fresh, young, little Irishman of fifty, 



1 88 Travels with a Donkey 

a deacon of the Church, arrayed in strict canonicals, 
and wearing on his head what, in default of knowledge, I 
can only call the ecclesiastical shako. He had lived seven 
years in retreat at a convent of nuns in Belgium, and now 
5 five at Our Lady of the Snows ; he never saw an English 
newspaper; he spoke French imperfectly, and had he 
spoken it like a native, there was not much chance of 
conversation where he dwelt. With this, he was a man 
eminently sociable, greedy of news, and simple-minded 

10 like a child. If I was pleased to have a guide about the 
monastery, he was no less delighted to see an English 
face and hear an English tongue. 

He showed me his own room, where he passed his time 
among breviaries, Hebrew bibles, and the Waverley 

15 novels. Thence he led me to the cloisters, into the 
chapter-house, through the vestry, where the brothers' 
gowns and broad straw hats were hanging up, each with 
his religious name upon a board, — names full of legendary 
suavity and interest, such as Basil, Hilarion, Raphael, or 

20 Pacifique; into the library, where were all the works of 
Veuillot and Chateaubriand, and the Odes et Ballades, 
if you please, and even Moliere, to say nothing of innu- 
merable fathers and a great variety of local and general 
historians. Thence my good Irishman took me round the 

25 workshops, where brothers bake bread, and make cart- 
wheels, and take photographs; where one superintends a 
collection of curiosities, and another a gallery of rabbits. 
For in a Trappist monastery each monk has an occupa- 
tion of his own choice, apart from his religious duties and 

30 the general labors of the house. Each must sing in the 
choir, if he has a voice and ear, and join in the haymaking 
if he has a hand to stir ; but in his private hours, although 
he must be occupied, he may be occupied on what he likes. 
Thus I was told that one brother was engaged w T ith litera- 



The Monks 189 

ture; while Father Apollfnaris busies himself in making 
roads, and the Abbot employs himself in binding books. 
It is not so long since this Abbot was consecrated, by the 
way; and on that occasion, by a special grace, his mother 
was permitted to enter the chapel and witness the ceremony 5 
of consecration. A proud day for her to have a son mitred 
abbot; it makes you glad to think they let her in. 

In all these journeyings to and fro, many silent fathers 
and brethren fell in our way. Usually they paid no more 
regard to our passage than if we had been a cloud; but 10 
sometimes the good deacon had a permission to ask of 
them, and it was granted by a peculiar movement of the 
hands, almost like that of a dog's paws in swimming, or 
refused by the usual negative signs, and in either case with 
lowered eyelids and a certain air of contrition, as of a man 15 
who was steering very close to evil. 

The monks, by special grace of their Abbot, were still 
taking two meals a day ; but it was already time for their 
grand fast, which begins somewhere in September and 
lasts till Easter, and during w r hich they eat but once in 20 
the twenty-four hours, and that at two in the afternoon, 
twelve hours after they have begun the toil and vigil of 
the day. Their meals are scanty, but even of these they 
eat sparingly;, and though each is allowed a small carafe 
of wine, many refrain from this indulgence. Without 25 
doubt, the most of mankind grossly overeat themselves; 
our meals serve not only for support, but as a hearty and 
natural diversion from the labor of life. Yet, though 
excess may be hurtful, I should have thought this Trappist 
regimen defective. And I am astonished, as I look back, 30 
at the freshness of face and cheerfulness of manner of all 
whom I beheld. A happier nor a healthier company I 
should scarce suppose that I have ever seen. As a mat- 
ter of fact, on this bleak upland, and with the incessant 



190 Travels with a Donkey 

occupation of the monks, life is of an uncertain tenure, and 
death no infrequent visitor, at Our Lady of the Snows. 
This, at least, was what was told me. But if they die 
easily, they must live healthily in the meantime, for they 
5 seemed all firm of flesh and high in color ; and the only 
morbid sign that I could observe, an unusual brilliancy 
of eye, was one that served rather to increase the general 
impression of vivacity and strength. 

Those with whom I spoke were singularly sweet tem- 

10 pered, with what I can only call a holy cheerfulness in 
air and conversation. There is a note, in the direction to 
visitors, telling them not to be offended at the curt speech 
of those who wait upon them, since it is proper to monks to 
speak little. The note might have been spared ; to a man 

15 the hospitalers were all brimming with innocent talk, and 
in my experience of the monastery, it was easier to begin 
than to break off a conversation. With the exception of 
Father Michael, who was a man of the world, they showed 
themselves full of kind and healthy interest in all sorts 

20 of subjects — in politics, in voyages, in my sleeping-sack — 
and not without a certain pleasure in the sound of their 
own voices. 

As for those who are restricted to silence, I can only 
wonder how they bear their solemn and cheerless isolation. 

25 And yet, apart from any view of mortification, I can see 
a certain policy, not only in the exclusion of women, but 
in this vow of silence. I have had some experience of lay 
phalansteries, of an artistic, not to say a bacchanalian, 
character ; and seen more than one association easily formed 

30 and yet more easily dispersed. With a Cistercian rule, 
perhaps they might have lasted longer. In the neighbor- 
hood of women it is but a touch-and-go association that 
can be formed among defenceless men; the stronger elec- 
tricity is sure to triumph; the dreams of boyhood, the 



The Monks 191 

schemes of youth, are abandoned after an interview of 
ten minutes, and the arts and sciences, and professional 
male jollity, deserted at once for two sweet eyes and a 
caressing accent. And next after this, the tongue is the 
great divider. 5 

I am almost ashamed to pursue this worldly criticism 
of a religious rule; but there is yet another point in w T hich 
the Trappist order appeals to me as a model of wisdom. 
By two in the morning the clapper goes upon the bell, and 
so on, hour by hour, and sometimes, quarter by quarter, 10 
till eight, the hour of rest; so infinitesimally is the day 
divided among different occupations. The man who keeps 
rabbits, for example, hurries from his hutches to the chapel, 
the chapter-room, or the refectory, all day long: every 
hour he has an office to sing, a duty to perform: from 15 
two, when he rises in the dark, till eight, when he re- 
turns to receive the comfortable gift of sleep, he is upon 
his feet and occupied with manifold and changing business. 
I know many persons, worth several thousands in the 
year, who are not so fortunate in the disposal of their 20 
lives. Into how many houses would not the note of the 
monastery bell, dividing the day into manageable portions, 
bring peace of mind and healthful activity of body! We 
speak of hardships, but the true hardship is to be a dull 
fool, and permitted to mismanage life in our own dull 25 
and foolish manner. 

From this point of view, we may perhaps better under- 
stand the monk's existence. A long novitiate and every 
proof of constancy of mind and strength of body is re- 
quired before admission to the order; but I could not 30 
find that many were discouraged. In the photographer's 
studio, which figures so strangely among the outbuildings, 
my eye was attracted by the portrait of a young fellow in 
the uniform of a private of foot. This was one of the 



192 Travels with a Donkey 

novices, who came of the age for service, and marched 
and drilled and mounted guard for the proper time among 
the garrison of Algiers. Here was a man who had surely 
seen both sides of life before deciding; yet as soon as he 
5 was set free from service he returned to finish his novitiate. 
This austere rule entitles a man to heaven as by right. 
When the Trappist sickens, he quits not his habit; he 
lies in the bed of death as he has prayed and labored in his 
frugal and silent existence ; and when the Liberator comes, 

10 at the very moment, even before they have carried him in 
his robe to lie his little last in the chapel among continual 
chantings, joy-bells break forth, as if for a marriage, from 
the slated belfry, and proclaim throughout the neighbor- 
hood that another soul has gone to God. 

15 At night, under the conduct of my kind Irishman, I 
took my place in the gallery to hear compline and Salve 
Kegina, with which the Cistercians bring every day to a 
conclusion. There were none of those circumstances which 
strike the Protestant as childish or as tawdry in the public 

20 offices of Rome. A stern simplicity, heightened by the 
romance of the surroundings, spoke directly to the heart. 
I recall the whitewashed chapel, the hooded figures in the 
choir, the lights alternately occluded and revealed, the 
strong manly singing, the silence that ensued, the sight 

25 of cowled heads bowed in prayer, and then the clear 
trenchant beating of the bell, breaking in to show that the 
last office was over and the hour of sleep had come; and 
when I remember, I am not surprised that I made my 
escape into the court with somewhat whirling fancies, and 

30 stood like a man bewildered in the windy starry night. 

But I was weary; and when I had quieted my spirits 

with Elizabeth Seton's memoirs — a dull work — the cold 

and the raving of the wind among the pines — for my room 

was on that side of the monastery which adjoins the woods 



The Monks 193 

— disposed me readily to slumber. I was wakened at 
black midnight, as it seemed, though it was really two in 
the morning, by the first stroke upon the bell. All the 
brothers were then hurrying to the chapel; the dead in 
life, at this untimely hour, were already beginning the 5 
uncomforted labors of their day. The dead in life — 
there was a chill reflection. And the words of a French 
song came back into my memory, telling of the best of our 
mixed existence. 

" Que t'as de belles filles, 10 

Girofle! 

Girofla ! 

Que t'as de belles filles, 

V Amour les comptera! " 

And I blessed God that I was free to wander, free to hope, 15 
and free to love. 



CHAPTER VIII 



THE BOARDERS 



But there was another side to my residence at Our 
Lady of the Snows. At this late season there were not 
many boarders; and yet I was not alone in the public 
part of the monastery. This itself is hard by the gate, 
5 with a small dining-room on the ground-floor, and a whole 
corridor of cells similar to mine up-stairs. I have stupidly 
forgotten the board for a regular retraitant; but it was 
somewhere between three and five francs a day, and I 
think most probably the first. Chance visitors like myseli- 

10 might give what they chose as a free-will offering, but 
nothing was demanded. I may mention that when I 
was going away, Father Michael refused twenty francs 
as excessive. I explained the reasoning which led me to 
offer him so much ; but even then, from a curious point of 

15 honor, he would not accept it with his own hand. " I 
have no right to refuse for the monastery," he explained, 
" but I should prefer if you would give it to one of the 
brothers." 

I had dined alone, because I arrived late; but at supper 

20 1 found two other guests. One was a country parish 
priest, who had walked over that morning from the seat of 
his cure near Mende to enjoy four days of solitude and 
prayer. He was a grenadier in person, with the hale color 
and circular wrinkles of a peasant; and as he complained 

25 much of how he had been impeded by his skirts upon the 
march, I had a vivid fancy portrait of him, striding along, 
194 



The Boarders 195 

upright, big-boned, with kilted cassock, through the bleak 
hills of Gevaudan. The other was a short, grizzling, 
thick-set man, from forty-five to fifty, dressed in tweed 
with a knitted spencer, and the red ribbon of a decoration 
in his buttonhole. This last was a hard person to classify. 5 
He was an old soldier, who had seen service and risen to 
the rank of commandant; and he retained some of the 
brisk decisive manners of the camp. On the other hand, 
as soon as his resignation was accepted, he had come to 
Our Lady of the Snows as a boarder, and, after a brief 10 
experience of its ways, had decided to remain as a novice. 
Already the new life was beginning to modify his appear- 
ance; already he had acquired somewhat of the quiet and 
smiling air of the brethren ; and he w T as as yet neither an 
officer nor a Trappist, but partook of the character of 15 
each. And certainly here was a man in an interesting 
nick of life. Out of the noise of cannon and trumpets, 
he was in the act of passing into this still country border- 
ing on the grave, where men sleep nightly in their grave- 
clothes, and, like phantoms, communicate by signs. 20 

At supper we talked politics. I make it my business, 
when I am in France, to preach political good-will and 
moderation, and to dwell on the example of Poland, much 
as some alarmists in England dwell on the example of 
Carthage. The priest and the Commandant assured me of 25 
their sympathy with all I said, and made a heavy sighing 
over the bitterness of contemporary feeling. 

" Why, you cannot say anything to a man with which he 
does not absolutely agree," said I, " but he flies up at you 
in a temper." 30 

They both declared that such a state of things was 
antichristian. 

While we were thus agreeing, what should my tongue 
stumble upon but a word in praise of Gambetta's modera- 



196 Travels with a Donkey 

tion. The old soldier's countenance was instantly suf- 
fused with blood; with the palms of his hands he beat 
the table like a naughty child. 

"Comment, monsieur?" he shouted. "Comment? 
5 Gambetta moderate? Will you dare to justify these 
words? " 

But the priest had not forgotten the tenor of our talk. 
And suddenly, in the height of his fury, the old soldier 
found a warning look directed on his face; the absurdity 

10 of his behavior was brought home to him in a flash; 
and the storm came to an abrupt end, without another 
word. 

It was only in the morning, over our coffee (Friday, 
September 27th), that this couple found out I was a 

15 heretic. I suppose I had misled them by some admiring ex- 
pressions as to the monastic life around us; and it was only 
by a point-blank question that the truth came out. I had 
been tolerantly used both by simple Father Apollinaris and 
astute Father Michael; and the good Irish deacon, when 

20 he heard of my religious weakness, had only patted me 
upon the shoulder and said, " You must be a Catholic 
and come to heaven." But I was now among a different 
sect of orthodox. These two men were bitter and up- 
right and narrow, like the worst of Scotsmen, and indeed, 

25 upon my heart, I fancy they were worse. The priest 
snorted aloud like a battle-horse. 

" Et vous pretendez mourir dans cette espece de croy- 
ance?" he demanded; and there is not type used by mortal 
printers large enough to qualify his accent. 

30 I humbly indicated that I had no design of changing. 

But he could not away with such a monstrous attitude. 
" No, no," he cried ; " you must change. You have come 
here, God has led you here, and you must embrace the 
opportunity. 



The Boarders 197 

I made a slip in policy; I appealed to the family affec- 
tions, though I was speaking to a priest and a soldier, 
two classes of men circumstantially divorced from the 
kind and homely ties of life. 

"Your. father and mother?" cried the priest. "Very 5 
well ; you will convert them in their turn when you go 
home." 

I think I see my father's face! I would rather tackle 
the Gaetulian lion in his den than embark on such an 
enterprise against the family theologian. 10 

But now the hunt was up; priest and soldier were in 
full cry for my conversion ; and the Work of the Propaga- 
tion of the Faith, for w T hich the people of Cheylard sub- 
scribed forty-eight francs ten centimes during 1877, was 
being gallantly pursued against myself. It was an odd 15 
but most effective proselytizing. They never sought to 
convince me in argument, where I might have attempted 
some defence; but took it for granted that I was both 
ashamed and terrified at my position, and urged me solely 
on the point of time. Now, they said, when God had 20 
led me to Our Lady of the Snows, now was the appointed 
hour. 

" Do not be withheld by false shame," observed the 
priest, for my encouragement. 

For one who feels very similarly to all sects of religion, 25 
and who has never been able, even for a moment, to weigh 
seriously the merit of this or that creed on the eternal 
side of things, however much he may see to praise or 
blame upon the secular and temporal side, the situation 
thus created was both unfair and painful. I committed 30 
my second fault in tact, and tried to plead that it was all 
the same thing in the end, and we w T ere all drawing near 
by different sides to the same kind and undiscrfminating 
Friend and Father. That, as it seems to lay-spirits, would 



198 Travels with a Donkey 

be the only gospel worthy of the name. But different 
men think differently; and this revolutionary aspiration 
brought down the priest with all the terrors of the law. 
He launched into harrowing details of hell. The damned, 
5 he said — on the authority of a little book which he had 
read not a week before, and which, to add conviction to 
conviction, he had fully intended to bring along with him 
in his pocket — were to occupy the same attitude through 
all eternity in the midst of dismal tortures. And as he 
10 thus expatiated, he grew in nobility of aspect with his 
enthusiasm. 

As a result the pair concluded that I should seek out 
• the Prior, since the Abbot was from home, and lay my 
case immediately before him. 
15 " C'est mon conseil comme ancien mW'italre," observed 
the Commandant; " e t celui de monsieur comme pretre." 
" Oui/ J added the cure, sententiously nodding; "comme 
anclen militaire — et comme pretre" 

At this moment, whilst I was somewhat embarrassed 
20 how to answer, in came one of the monks, a little brown 
fellow, as lively as a grig, and with an Italian accent, who 
threw himself at once into the contention, but in a milder 
and more persuasive vein, as befitted one of these pleasant 
brethren. Look at him, he said. The rule was very 
25 hard ; he would have dearly liked to stay in his own coun- 
try, Italy — it was well known how beautiful it was, the 
beautiful Italy; but then there were no Trappists in 
Italy ; and he had a soul to save ; and here he was. 

I am afraid I must be at bottom, what a cheerful 
30 Indian critic has dubbed me, "a faddling hedonist;" for 
this description of the brother's motives gave me some- 
what of a shock. I should have preferred to think he had 
chosen the life for its own sake, and not for ulterior 
purposes; and this shows how profoundly I was out of 



The Boarders 199 

sympathy with these good Trappists, even when I was 
doing my best to sympathize. But to the cure the argu- 
ment seemed decisive. 

"Hear that!" he cried. "And I have seen a marquis 
here, a marquis, a marquis " — he repeated the holy word 5 
three times over — "and other persons high in society; 
and generals. And here, at your side, is this gentleman, 
who has been so many years in armies — decorated, an 
old warrior. And here he is, ready to dedicate himself to 
God." 10 

I was by this time so thoroughly embarrassed that I 
pleaded cold feet, and made my escape from the apart- 
ment. It was a furious windy morning, with a sky much 
cleared, and long and potent intervals of sunshine; and I 
wandered until dinner in the wild country towards the 15 
east, sorely staggered and beaten upon by the gale, but 
rewarded with some striking views. 

At dinner the Work of the Propagation of the Faith 
was recommenced, and on this occasion still more dis- 
tastefully to me. The priest asked me many questions as 20 
to the contemptible faith of my fathers, and received my 
replies with a kind of ecclesiastical titter. 

"Your sect," he said once; " for I think you will admit 
it would be doing it too much honor to call it a religion." 

"As you please, monsieur," said I. "La parole est a 25 
vous." 

At length I grew anno5^ed beyond endurance; and al- 
though he was on his own ground and, what is more to 
the purpose, an old man, and so holding a claim upon my 
toleration, I could not avoid a protest against this uncivil 30 
usage. He was sadly discountenanced. 

" I assure you," he said, " I have no inclination to laugh 
in my heart. I have no other feeling but interest in your 
soul." 



200 Travels with a Donkey 

And there ended my conversion. Honest man! he 
was no dangerous deceiver; but a country parson, full of 
zeal and faith. Long may he tread Gevaudan with his 
kilted skirts — a man strong to walk and strong to cora- 
5 fort his parishioners in death ! I daresay he would beat 
bravely through a snow-storm where his duty called him; 
and it is not always the most faithful believer who makes 
the cunningest apostle. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 

(Continued) 

The bed was made, the room was fit, 
By punctual eve the stars were lit; 
The air was still, the water ran ; 
No need there was for maid or man, 
When we put up, my ass and I, 
At God's green caravanserai. 

Old Play. 



CHAPTER IX 



ACROSS THE GOULET 



The wind fell during dinner, and the sky remained 
clear; so it was under better auspices that I loaded Modes- 
tine before the monastery-gate. My Irish friend accom- 
panied me so far on the way. As we came through the 
wood, there was Pere Apollinaris hauling his barrow; 5 
and he too quitted his labors to go with me for perhaps 
a hundred yards, holding my hand between both of his 
in front of him. I parted first from one and then from 
the other with unfeigned regret, but yet with the glee of 
the traveler who shakes off the dust of one stage before 10 
hurrying forth upon another. Then Modestine and I 
mounted the course of the Allier, which here led us back 
into Gevaudan towards its sources in the forest of Mer- 
coire. It was but an inconsiderable burn before we left its 
guidance. Thence, over a hill, our way lay through a 15 
naked plateau, until we reached Chasserades at sundown. 

The company in the inn-kitchen that night were all 
men employed in survey for one of the projected railways. 
They were intelligent and conversable, and we decided 
the future of France over hot wine, until the state of the 20 
clock frightened us to rest. There were four beds in the 
little up-stairs room; and we slept six. But I had a bed 
to myself, and persuaded them to leave the window open. 

"He, bourgeois; il est cinq heures!" was the cry that 
wakened me in the morning (Saturday, September 28th). 25 
The room was full of a transparent darkness, which dimly 
203 



204 Travels with a Donkey 

showed me the other three beds and the five different 
nightcaps on the pillows. But out of the window the 
dawn was growing ruddy in a long belt over the hilltops, 
and day was about to flood the plateau. The hour was 
5 inspiriting; and there seemed a promise of calm weather, 
which was perfectly fulfilled. I was soon under way with 
Modestine. The road lay for a while over the plateau, 
and then descended through a precipitous village into the 
valley of the Chassezac. This stream ran among green 

10 meadows, well hidden from the world by its steep banks; 
the broom was in flower, and here and there was a hamlet 
sending up its smoke. 

At last the path crossed the Chassezac upon a bridge, 
and, forsaking this deep hollow, set itself to cross the 

15 mountain of La Goulet. It wound up through Lestampes 
by upland fields and woods of beech and birch, and with 
every corner brought me into an acquaintance with some 
new interest. Even in the gully of the Chassezac my 
ear had been struck by a noise like that of a great bass 

20 bell ringing at the distance of many miles; but this, as I 
continued to mount and draw nearer to it, seemed to 
change in character, and I found at length that it came 
from some one leading flocks afield to the note of a rural 
horn. The narrow street of Lestampes stood full of 

25 sheep, from wall to walL — black sheep and white, bleating 
with one accord like the birds in spring, and each one ac- 
companying himself upon the sheep-bell round his neck. 
It made a pathetic concert, all in treble. A little higher, 
and I passed a pair of men in a tree with pruning-hooks, 

30 and one of them was singing the music of a bourree. Still 
further, and when I was already threading the birches, 
the crowing of cocks came cheerfully up to my ears, and 
along with that the voice of a flute discoursing a deliber- 
ate and plaintive air from one of the upland villages. I 



Across the Goulet 205 

pictured to myself some grizzled, apple-cheeked, country 
schoolmaster fluting in his bit of a garden in the clear 
autumn sunshine. All these beautiful and interesting 
sounds filled my heart with an unwonted expectation; 
and it appeared to me that, once past this range which 5 
I was mounting, I should descend into the garden of the 
world. Nor was I deceived, for I was now done with 
rains and winds and a bleak country. The first part of 
my journey ended here ; and this was like an induction of 
sweet sounds into the other and more beautiful. 10 

There are other degrees of feyness, as of punishment, 
besides the capital ; and I was now led by my good spirits 
into an adventure which I relate in the interest of future 
donkey-drivers. The road zigzagged so widely on the 
hillside, that I chose a short cut by map and compass, and 15 
struck through the dwarf woods to catch the road again 
upon a higher level. It was my one serious conflict with 
Modestine. She would none of my short cut; she turned 
in my face, she backed, she reared ; she, whom I had 
hitherto imagined to be dumb, actually brayed w T ith a loud 20 
hoarse flourish, like a cock crowing for the dawn. I plied 
the goad with one hand; w T ith the other, so steep w T as the 
ascent, I had to hold on the pack-saddle. Half a dozen 
times she was nearly over backwards on the top of me; 
half a dozen times, from sheer weariness of spirit, I was 25 
nearly giving it up, and leading her down again to follow 
the road. But I took the thing as a wager, and fought it 
through. I was surprised, as I went on my way again, 
by what appeared to be chill rain-drops falling on my hand, 
and more than once looked up in wonder at the cloudless 30 
sky. But it was only sweat which came dropping from 
my brow. 

Over the summit of the Goulet there was no marked 
road — only upright stones posted from space to space to 



206 Travels with a Donkey 

guide the drovers. The turf underfoot was springy and 
well scented. I had no company but a lark or two, and 
met but one bullock-cart between Lestampes and Bley- 
mard. In front of me I saw a shallow valley, and 
5 beyond that the range of the Lozere, sparsely wooded and 
well enough modeled in the flanks, but straight and dull in 
outline. There was scarce a sign of culture; only about 
Bleymard, the white high-road from Villefort to Mende 
traversed a range of meadows, set with spiry poplars, 
10 and sounding from side to side with the bells of flocks 
and herds. 



CHAPTER X 

A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 

From Bleymard after dinner, although it was already- 
late, I set out to scale a portion of the Lozere. An ill- 
marked stony drove road guided me forward ; and I met 
nearly half a dozen bullock-carts descending from the 
woods, each laden with a whole pine-tree for the winter's 5 
firing. At the top of the woods, which do not climb very 
high upon this cold ridge, I struck leftward by a path 
among the pines, until I hit on a dell of green turf, where 
a streamlet made a little spout over some stones to serve 
me for a water-tap. " In a more sacred or sequestered 10 
bower . . . nor nymph, nor faunus, haunted." The 
trees were not old, but they grew thickly round the glade: 
there was no outlook, except north-eastward upon distant 
hill-tops, or straight upward to the sky; and the encamp- 
ment felt secure and private like a room. By the time I 15 
had made my arrangements and fed Modestine, the day 
was already beginning to decline. I buckled myself to the 
knees into my sack and made a hearty meal; and as soon 
as the sun went down, I pulled my cap over my eyes and 
fell asleep. 20 

Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but 
in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews 
and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the 
face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death 
to people choked between walls and curtains, is only a 25 
light and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield. 
207 



208 Travels with a Donkey 

All night long he can hear Nature breathing deeply and 
freely; even as she takes her rest, she turns and smiles; 
and there is one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell 
in houses, when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the 
5 sleeping hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on 
their feet. It is then that the cock first crows, not this 
time to announce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman 
speeding the course of night. Cattle awake on the mead- 
ows; sheep break their fast on dewy hillsides, and change 

10 to a new lair among the ferns; and houseless men, who 
have lain down with the fowls, open their dim eyes and 
behold the beauty of the night. 

At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of 
Nature, are all these sleepers thus recalled in the same 

15 hour to life? Do the stars rain down an influence, or do 
we share some thrill of mother earth below our resting 
bodies? Even shepherds and old country-folk, who are 
the deepest read in these arcana, have not a guess as to 
the means or purpose of this nightly resurrection. To- 

20 wards two in the morning they declare the thing takes 
place; and neither know nor inquire further. And at 
least it is a pleasant incident. We are disturbed in our 
slumber only, like the luxurious Montaigne, " that we may 
the better and more sensibly relish it." We have a mo- 

25 ment to look upon the stars. And there is a special 
pleasure for some minds in the reflection that we share 
the impulse with all outdoor creatures in our neighborhood, 
that we have escaped out of the Bastille of civilization, 
and are become, for the time being, a mere kindly animal 

30 and a sheep of Nature's flock. 

When that hour came to me among the pines, I wakened 
thirsty. My tin was standing by me half full of water. 
I emptied it at a draught; and feeling broad awake after 
this internal cold aspersion, sat upright to make a cigarette. 



A Night Among the Pines 209 

The stars were clear, colored, and jewel-like, but not 
frosty. A faint silvery vapor stood for the Milky Way. 
All around me the black fir-points stood upright and stock- 
still. By the whiteness of the pack-saddle, I could see 
Modestine walking round and round at the length of 5 
her tether ; I could hear her steadily munching at the sward ; 
but there was not another sound, save the indescribable 
quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I lay lazily 
smoking and studying the color of the sky, as we call the 
void of space, from where it showed a reddish gray be- 10 
hind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue-black 
between the stars. As if to be more like a pedlar, I wear 
a silver ring. This I could see faintly shining as I raised 
and lowered the cigarette; and at each whiff the inside of 
my hand was illuminated, and became for a second the 15 
highest light in the landscape. 

A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a 
stream of air, passed down the glade from time to time; 
so that even in my great chamber the air was being renewed 
all night long. I thought with horror of the inn at Chas- 20 
serades and the congregated nightcaps; with horror of 
the nocturnal prowesses of clerks and students, of hot 
theaters and pass-keys and close rooms. I have not often 
enjoyed a more serene possession of myself, nor felt more 
independent of material aids. The outer world, from 25 
which we cower into our houses, seemed after all a gentle 
habitable place; and night after night a man's bed, it 
seemed, was laid and waiting for him in the fields, where 
God keeps an open house. I thought I had rediscovered 
one of those truths which are revealed to savages and hid 30 
from political economists: at the least, I had discovered 
a new pleasure for myself. And yet even while I was 
exalting in my solitude I became aware of a strange lack. 
I wished a companion to lie near me in the starlight, silent 



210 Travels with a Donkey 

and not moving, but ever within touch. For there is a 
fellowship more quiet even than solitude, and which, 
rightly understood, is solitude made perfect. And to 
live out of doors with the woman a man loves is of all 
5 lives the most complete and free. 

As I thus lay, between content and longing, a faint 
noise stole towards me through the pines. I thought, 
at first, it was the crowing of cocks or the barking of 
dogs at some very distant farm ; but steadily and gradu- 

10 ally it took articulate shape in my ears, until I became 
aware that a passenger was going by upon the high-road 
in the valley, and singing loudly as he went. There was 
more of good-will than grace in his performance; but he 
trolled with ample lungs; and the sound of his voice took 

15 hold upon the hillside and set the air shaking in the leafy 
glens. I have heard people passing by night in sleeping 
cities; some of them sang; one, I remember, played loudly 
on the bagpipes. I have heard the rattle of a cart or 
carriage spring up suddenly after hours of stillness, and 

20 pass, for some minutes, within the range of my hearing as 
I lay abed. There is a romance about all who are abroad 
in the black hours, and with something of a thrill we 
try to guess their business. But here the romance was 
double : first, this glad passenger, lit internally with wine, 

25 who sent up his voice in music through the night ; and 
then I, on the other hand, buckled into my sack, and 
smoking alone in the pine-woods between four and five 
thousand feet towards the stars. 

When I awoke again (Sunday, 29th September), many 

30 of the stars had disappeared ; only the stronger com- 
panions of the night still burned visibly overhead ; and 
away towards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the 
horizon, such as had been the Milky Way when I was 
last awake. Day was at hand. I lit my lantern, and by 



A Night Among the Pines 211 

its glowworm light put on my boots and gaiters; then I 
broke up some bread for Modestine, filled my can at the 
water-tap, and lit my spirit-lamp to boil myself some 
chocolate. The blue darkness lay long in the glade where 
I had so sweetly slumbered ; but soon there was a broad 5 
streak of orange melting into gold along the mountain- 
tops of Vivarais. A solemn glee possessed my mind at 
this gradual and lovely coming in of day. I heard 
the runnel with delight; I looked. round me for something 
beautiful and unexpected ; but the still black pine-trees, 10 
the hollow glade, the munching ass, remained unchanged 
in figure. Nothing had altered but the light, and that, 
indeed, shed over all a spirit of life and of breathing 
peace, and moved me to a strange exhilaration. 

I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not 15 
rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about 
the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady 
wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the 
quarter of the morning. It was cold, and set me sneezing. 
The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its 20 
passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine 
along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against 
the golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread 
at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and 
sparkles, and the day had come completely. 25 

I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle the steep 
ascent that lay before me; but I had something on my 
mind. It was only a fancy; yet a fancy w T ill sometimes 
be importunate. I had been most hospitably received 
and punctually served in my green caravanserai. The 30 
room was airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had 
called me to a moment. I say nothing of the tapestries 
or the inimitable ceiling, nor yet of the view which I 
commanded from the windows; but I felt I was in some 



212 Travels with a Donkey 

one's debt for all this liberal entertainment. And so it 
pleased me, in a half-laughing way, to leave pieces of 
money on the turf as I went along, until I had left enough 
for my night's lodging. I trust they did not fall to some 
5 rich and churlish drover. 



THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS 

We traveled in the print of olden wars ; 

Yet all the land was green; 

And love we found, and peace, 

Where fire and war had been. 
They pass and smile, the children of the sword — 

No more the sword they wield ■ 

And O how deep the corn 

Along the battlefield ! 

W. P. Bannatyne. 



CHAPTER XI 



ACROSS THE LOZERE 



The track that I had followed in the evening soon died 
out, and I continued to follow over a bald turf ascent 
a row of stone pillars, such as had conducted me across 
the Goulet. It was already warm. I tied my jacket on 
the pack, and walked in my knitted waistcoat. Modes- 5 
tine herself was in high spirits, and broke of her own 
accord, for the first time in my experience, into a jolting 
trot that set the oats swashing in the pocket of my coat. 
The view, back upon the northern Gevaudan, extended 
with every step; scarce a tree, scarce a house, appeared 10 
upon the fields of wild hill that ran north, east, and west, 
all blue and gold in the haze and sunlight of the morning. 
A multitude of little birds kept sweeping and twittering 
about my path; they perched on the stone pillars, they 
pecked and strutted on the turf, and I saw them circle 15 
in volleys in the blue air, and show, from time to time, 
translucent flickering wings between the sun and me. 

Almost from the first moment of my march, a faint 
large noise, like a distant surf, had filled my ears. Some- 
times I was tempted to think it the voice of a neighbor- 20 
ing waterfall, and sometimes a subjective result of the 
utter stillness of the hill. But as I continued to advance, 
the noise increased and became like the hissing of an 
enormous tea-urn, and at the same time breaths of cool 
air began to reach me from the direction of the summit. 25 
At length I understood. It was blowing stiffly from the 
215 



2 1 6 Travels with a Donkey 

south upon the other slope of the Lozere, and every step 
that I took I was drawing nearer to the wind. 

Although it had been long desired, it was. quite unex- 
pectedly art last that my eyes rose above the summit. A 
5 step that seemed no way more decisive than many other 
steps that had preceded it — and, " like stout Cortez when, 
with eagle eyes, he stared on the Pacific," I took posses- 
sion, in my own name, of a new quarter of the world. 
For behold, instead of the gross turf rampant I had been 

io mounting for so long, a view into the hazy air of heaven, 
and a land of intricate blue hills below my feet. 

The Lozere lies nearly east and west, cutting Gevaudan 
into two unequal parts; its highest point, this Pic de 
Finiels, on which I was then standing, rises upwards of 

15 five thousand six hundred feet above the sea, and in clear 
weather commands a view over all lower Languedoc to 
the Mediterranean Sea. I have spoken with people who 
either pretended or believed that they had seen, from the 
Pic de Finiels, white ships sailing by Montpellier and 

20 Cette. Behind was the upland northern country through 
which my way had lain, peopled by a dull race, without 
wood, without much grandeur of hill-form, and famous 
in the past for little beside wolves. But in front of me, 
half veiled in sunny haze, lay a new Gevaudan, rich, 

25 picturesque, illustrious for stirring events. Speaking 
largely, I was in the Cevennes at Monastier, and during 
all my journey; but there is a strict and local sense in 
which only this confused and shaggy country at my feet 
has any title to the name, and in this sense, the peas- 

30 antry employ the word. These are the Cevennes with an 
emphasis: the Cevennes of the Cevennes. In that un- 
decipherable labyrinth of hills, a war of bandits, a war of 
wild beasts, raged for two years between the Grand Mon- 
arch with all his troops and marshals on the one hand, 



Across the Lozere 217 

and a few thousand Protestant mountaineers upon the 
other. A hundred and eighty years ago, the Camisards 
held a station even on the Lozere, where I stood ; they 
had an organization, arsenals, a military and religious 
hierarchy; their affairs were "the discourse of every 5 
coffee-house " in London ; England sent fleets in their 
support; their leaders prophesied and murdered; with 
colors and drums, and the singing of old French psalms, 
their bands sometimes affronted daylight, marched before 
walled cities, and dispersed the generals of the king; and 10 
sometimes at night, or in masquerade, possessed them- 
selves of strong castles, and avenged treachery upon their 
allies and cruelty upon their foes. There, a hundred and 
eighty years ago, was the chivalrous Roland, " Count 
and Lord Roland, generalissimo of the Protestants in 15 
France," grave, silent, imperious, pock-marked, ex-dragoon, 
whom a lady followed in his wanderings out of love. 
There was Cavalier, a baker's apprentice with a genius 
for war, elected brigadier of Camisards at seventeen, to 
die at fifty-five the English governor of Jersey. There 20 
again was Castanet, a partizan leader in a voluminous 
peruke and with a taste for controversial divinity. Strange 
generals, who moved apart to take counsel with the God 
of Hosts, and fled or offered battle, set sentinels or slept 
in an unguarded camp, as the Spirit whispered to their 25 
hearts! And there, to follow these and other leaders, 
was the rank and file of prophets and disciples, bold, 
patient, indefatigable, hardy to run upon the mountains, 
cheering their rough life with psalms, eager to fight, eager 
to pray, listening devoutly to the oracles of brainsick 30 
children, and mystically putting a grain of wheat among 
the pewter balls with which they charged their muskets. 
I had traveled hitherto through a dull district, and 
in the track of nothing more notable than the child-eating 



2i8 Travels with a Donkey 

Beast of Gevaudan, the Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. 
But now I was to go down into the scene of a romantic 
chapter — or, better, a romantic footnote — in the history 
of the world. What was left of all this bygone dust and 
5 heroism ? I was told that Protestantism still survived 
in this head seat of Protestant resistance; so much the 
priest himself had told me in the monastery parlor. 
But I had yet to learn if it were a bare survival, or a lively 
and generous tradition. Again, if in the northern Ce- 

10 vennes the people are narrow in religious judgments, 
and more filled with zeal than charity, what was I to look 
for in this land of persecution and reprisal — in a land 
where the tyranny of the Church produced the Camisard 
rebellion, and the terror of the Camisards threw the 

15 Catholic peasantry into legalized revolt upon the other 
side, so that Camisard and Florentin skulked for each 
other's lives among the mountains? 

Just on the brow of the hill, where I paused to look 
before me, the series of stone pillars came abruptly to an 

20 end; and only a little below, a sort of track appeared 
and began to go down a breakneck slope, turning like 
a corkscrew^ as it went. It led into a valley between 
falling hills, stubbly with rocks like a reaped field of corn, 
and floored further down with green meadows. I fol- 

25 lowed the track with precipitation ; the steepness of the 
slope, the continual agile turning of the line of the descent, 
and the old unwearied hope of finding something new in 
a new country, all conspired to lend me wings. Yet 
a little lower and a stream began, collecting itself to- 

30 gether out of many fountains, and soon making a glad 
noise among the hills. Sometimes it would cross the 
track in a bit of waterfall, with a pool, in which Mo- 
destine refreshed her feet. 

The whole descent is like a dream to me, so rapidly was 



Across the Lozere 219 

ft accomplished. I had scarcely left the summit ere the 
valley had closed round my path, and the sun beat upon 
me, walking in a stagnant lowland atmosphere. The 
track became a road, and went up and down in easy un- 
dulations. I passed cabin after cabin, but all seemed 5 
deserted; and I saw not a human creature, nor heard any 
sound except that of the stream. I was, however, in a 
different country from the day before. The stony skele- 
ton of the world was here vigorously displayed to sun 
and air. The slopes were steep and changeful. Oak- 10 
trees clung along the hills, well grown, wealthy in leaf, 
and touched by the autumn with strong and luminous 
colors. Here and there another stream would fall in 
from the right or the left, down a gorge of snow-white 
and tumultuary boulders. The river in the bottom (for 15 
it was rapidly growing a river, collecting on all hands 
as it trotted on its way) here foamed awhile in desperate 
rapids, and there lay in pools of the most enchanting sea- 
green shot with watery browns. As far as I have gone, 
I have never seen a river of so changeful and delicate a 20 
hue; crystal was not more clear, the meadows were not 
by half so green; and at every pool I saw I felt a thrill 
of longing to be out of these hot, dusty, and material 
garments, and bathe my naked body in the mountain air 
and water. All the time as I went on I never forgot it 25 
was the Sabbath; the stillness was a perpetual reminder; 
and I heard in spirit the church-bells clamoring all over 
Europe, and the psalms of a thousand churches. 

At length a human sound struck upon my ear — a cry 
strangely modulated between pathos and derision; and 30 
looking across the valley, I saw a little urchin sitting in 
a meadow, with his hands about his knees, and dwarfed 
to almost comical smallness by the distance. But the 
rogue had picked me out as I went down the road, from 



220 Travels with a Donkey 

oak-wood on to oak-wood, driving Modestine; and he 
made me the compliments of the new country in this 
tremulous high-pitched salutation. And as all noises are 
lovely and natural at a sufficient distance, this also, com- 
5 ing through so much clean hill air and crossing all the 
green valley, sounded pleasant to my ear, and seemed 
a thing rustic, like the oaks or the river. 

A little after, the stream that I was following fell into 
the Tarn at Pont de Montvert of bloody memory. 



CHAPTER XII 

PONT DE MONTVERT 

One of the first things I encountered in Pont de Mont- 
vert was, if I remember rightly, the Protestant temple; 
but this was but the type of other novelties. A subtle 
atmosphere distinguishes a town in England from a town 
in France, or even in Scotland. At Carlisle you can see 5 
you are in one country; at Dumfries, thirty miles away, 
you are sure that you are in the other. I should find it 
difficult to tell in what particulars Pont de Montvert dif- 
fered from Monastier or Langogne, or even Bleymard ; but 
the difference existed, and spoke eloquently to the eyes. 10 
The place, with its houses, its lanes, its glaring river-bed, 
wore an indescribable air of the South. 

All was Sunday bustle in the streets and in the public- 
house, as all had been Sabbath peace among the moun- 
tains. There must have been near a score of us at dinner 15 
by eleven before noon ; and after I had eaten and drunken, 
and sat writing up my journal, I suppose as many more 
came dropping in one after another, or by twos and threes. 
In crossing the Lozere I had not only come among new 
natural features, but moved into the territory of a different 20 
race. These people, as they hurriedly despatched their 
viands in an intricate sword-play of knives, questioned and 
answered me with a degree of intelligence which excelled 
all that I had met, except among the railway folk at 
Chasserades. They had open telling faces, and they were 25 
lively both in speech and manner. They not only entered 



222 Travels with a Donkey 

thoroughly into the spirit of my little trip, but more than 
one declared, if he were rich enough, he would like to set 
forth on such another. 

Even physically there was a pleasant change. I had 

5 not seen a pretty woman since I left Monastier, and there 
but one. Now of the three who sat down with me to 
dinner, one was certainly not beautiful — a poor timid 
thing of forty, quite troubled at this roaring table d'hote, 
whom I squired and helped to wine, and pledged and tried 

10 generally to encourage, with quite a contrary effect; but 
the other two, both married, were both more handsome 
than the average of women. And Clarisse? What shall 
I say of Clarisse? She waited the table with a heavy 
placable nonchalance, like a performing cow; her great 

15 gray eyes were steeped in amorous languor; her features, 
although fleshy, were of an original and accurate design; 
her mouth had a curl; her nostril spoke of dainty pride; 
her cheek fell into strange and interesting lines. It was 
a face capable of strong emotion, and, with training, it 

20 offered the promise of delicate sentiment. It seemed piti- 
ful to see so good a model left to country admirers and a 
country way of thought. Beauty should at least have 
touched society ; then, in a moment, it throws off a weight 
that lay upon it, it becomes conscious of itself, it puts on 

25 an elegance, learns a gait and a carriage of the head, and, 
in a moment, patet dea. Before I left I assured Clarisse of 
my hearty admiration. She took it like milk, without 
embarrassment or wonder, merely looking at me steadily 
with her great eyes; and I own the result upon myself 

30 was some confusion. If Clarisse could read English, I 
should not dare to add that her figure was unworthy of 
her face. Hers was a case for stays; but that may per- 
haps grow better as she gets up in years. 

Pont de Montvert, or Greenhill Bridge, as we might 



Pont de Montvert 223 

say at home, is a place memorable in the story of the 
Camisards. It was here that the war broke out ; here that 
those southern Covenanters slew their Archbishop Sharpe. 
The persecution on the one hand, the febrile enthusiasm 
on the other, are almost equally difficult to understand in 5 
these quiet modern days, and with our easy modern be- 
liefs and disbeliefs. The Protestants were one and all 
beside their right minds with zeal and sorrow. They were 
all prophets and prophetesses. Children at the breast 
would exhort their parents to good works. "A child of 10 
fifteen months at Quissac spoke from its mother's arms, 
agitated and sobbing, distinctly and with a loud voice." 
Marshal Villars has seen a tow r n where all the women 
" seemed possessed by the devil," and had trembling fits, 
and uttered prophecies publicly upon the streets. A 15 
prophetess of Vivarais was hanged at Montpellier because 
blood flowed from her eyes and nose, and she declared that 
she was weeping tears of blood for the misfortunes of the 
Protestants. And it was not only women and children. 
Stalwart dangerous fellows, used to swing the sickle or to 20 
wield the forest ax, were likewise shaken with strange 
paroxysms, and spoke oracles with sobs and streaming 
tears. A persecution unsurpassed in violence had lasted 
near a score of years, and this was the result upon the per- 
secuted; hanging, burning, breaking on the w T heel, had 25 
been in vain; the dragoons had left their hoof-marks over 
all the country-side; there were men rowing the galleys, 
and women pining in the prisons of the Church; and 
not a thought was changed in the heart of any upright 
Protestant. 30 

Now the head and forefront of the persecution — after 
Lamoignon de Bavile — Frangois de Langlade du Chayla 
(pronounced Chei'la), Archpriest of the Cevennes and In- 
spector of Missions in the same country, had a house in 



224 Travels with a Donkey 

which he sometimes dwelt in the town of Pont de Mont- 
vert. He was a conscientious person, who seems to have 
been intended by nature for a pirate, and now fifty-five, 
an age by which a man has learned all the moderation of 
5 which he is capable. A missionary in his youth in China, 
he there suffered martyrdom, was left for dead, and only 
succored and brought back to life by the charity of a 
pariah. We must suppose the pariah devoid of second 
sight, and not purposely malicious in this act. Such an 

10 experience, it might be thought, would have cured a man 
of the desire to persecute; but the human spirit is a thing 
strangely put together; and, having been a Christian 
martyr, Du Chayla became a Christian persecutor. The 
Work of the Propagation of the Faith w r ent roundly 

15 forward in his hands. His house in Pont du Montvert 
served him as a prison. There he plucked out the hairs 
of the beard, and closed the hands of his prisoners upon 
live coal, to convince them that they were deceived in their 
opinions. And yet had not he himself tried and proved 

20 the inefficacy of these carnal arguments among the Boodh- 
ists in China? 

Not only was life made intolerable in Languedoc, but 
flight was rigidly forbidden. One Massip, a muleteer, and 
well acquainted with the mountain-paths, had already 

25 guided several troops of fugitives in safety to Geneva ; 
and on him, with another convoy, consisting mostly of 
women dressed as men, Du Chayla, in an evil hour for 
himself, laid his hands. The Sunday following, there was 
a conventicle of Protestants in the woods of Altefage upon 

30 Mount Bouges ; where there stood up one Seguier — Spirit 
Seguier, as his companions called him — a wool-carder, 
tall, black-faced, and toothless, but a man full of prophecy. 
He declared, in the name of God, that the time for sub- 
mission had gone by, and they must betake themselves to 



Pont de Montvert 225 

arms for the deliverance of their brethren and the de- 
struction of the priests. 

The next night, 24th July, 1702, a sound disturbed 
the Inspector of Missions as he sat in his prison-house at 
Pont de Montvert; the voices of many men upraised in 5 
psalmody drew nearer and nearer through the town. It 
was ten at night ; he had his court about him, priests, 
soldiers, and servants, to the number of twelve or fifteen, 
and now dreading the insolence of a conventicle below 
his very windows, he ordered forth his soldiers to report. 10 
But the psalm-singers were already at his door, fifty 
strong, led by the inspired Seguier, and breathing death. 
To their summons, the archpriest made answer like a 
stout old persecutor, and bade his garrison fire upon the 
mob. One Camisard (for, according to some, it was in 15 
this night's w T ork that they came by the name) fell at this 
discharge; his comrades burst in the door with hatchets 
and a beam of wood, overran the lower story of the house, 
set free the prisoners, and finding one of them in the vine, 
a sort of Scavenger's Daughter of the place and period, 20 
redoubled in fury against Du Chayla, and sought by re- 
peated assaults to carry the upper floors. But he, on his 
side, had given absolution to his men, and they bravely 
held the staircase. 

" Children of God," cried the prophet, " hold your 25 
hands. Let us burn the house, with the priest and the 
satellites of Baal." 

The fire caught readily. Out of an upper window 
Du Chayla and his men lowered themselves into the 
garden by means of knotted sheets ; some escaped across 30 
the river under the bullets of the insurgents ; but the arch- 
priest himself fell, broke his thigh, and could only crawl 
into the hedge. What were his reflections as this second 
martyrdom drew near? A poor brave, besotted, hateful 



226 Travels with a Donkey 

man, who had done his duty resolutely according to his 
light both in the Cevennes and China. He found at least 
one telling word to say in his defence; for when the roof 
fell in and the upbursting flames discovered his retreat, 

5 and they came and dragged him to the public place of 
the town, raging and calling him damned — " If I be 
damned," said he, " why should you also damn your- 
selves? " 

Here was a good reason for the last ; but in the course 

10 of his inspectorship he had given many stronger which all 
told in a contrary direction; and these he was now to 
hear. One by one, Seguier first, the Camisards drew near 
and stabbed him. " This," they said, " is for my father 
broken on the wheel. This for my brother in the galleys. 

15 That for my mother or my sister imprisoned in your cursed 
convents." Each gave his blow and his reason; and 
then all kneeled and sang psalms around the body till the 
dawn. With the dawn, still singing, they defiled away 
towards Frugeres, further up the Tarn, to pursue the 

20 work of vengeance, leaving Du Chayla's prison house in 
ruins, and his body pierced with two-and-fifty wounds 
upon the public place. 

Tis a wild night's work, with its accompaniment of 
psalms; and it seems as if a psalm must always have a 

25 sound of threatening in that town upon the Tarn. But 
the story does not end, even so far as concerns Pont du 
Montvert, with the departure of the Camisards. The 
career of Seguier was brief and bloody. Two more priests 
and a whole family at Ladeveze, from the father to the 

30 servants, fell by his hand or by his orders ; and yet he was 
but a day or two at large, and restrained all the time by 
the presence of the soldiery. Taken at length by a famous 
soldier of fortune, Captain Poul, he appeared unmoved 
before his judges. 



Pont de Montvert 227 

"Your name?" they asked. 
" Pierre Seguier." 
"Why are you called Spirit?" 
" Because the Spirit of the Lord is with me." 
"Your domicile? " j 

" Lately in the desert, and soon in heaven." 
"Have you no remorse for your crimes?" 
" I have committed none. My soul is like a garden full 
of shelter and of fountains." 

At Pont de Montvert, on the 12th of August, he had 
his right hand stricken from his body, and was burned 
alive. And his soul was like a garden? So perhaps was 
the soul of Du Chayla, the Christian martyr. And per- 
haps if you could read in my soul, or I could read in yours, 
our own composure might seem little less surprising. 

Du Chayla's house still stands, with a new roof, be- 
side one of the bridges of the town ; and if you are curious 
you may see the terrace-garden into which he dropped. 



CHAPTER XIII 

IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 

A new road leads from Pont de Montvert to Florae 
by the valley of the Tarn; a smooth sandy ledge, it runs 
about half-way between the summit of the cliffs and the 
river in the bottom of the valley; and I went in and out, 

5 as I followed it, from bays of shadow into promontories 
of afternoon sun. This was a pass like that of Killie- 
crankie; a deep turning gully in the hills, with the Tarn 
making a wonderful hoarse uproar far below, and craggy 
summits standing in the sunshine high above. A thin 

10 fringe of ash-trees ran about the hill-tops, like ivy on a 
ruin; but on the lower slopes, and far up every glen, the 
Spanish chestnut-trees stood each four-square to heaven 
under its tented foliage. Some were planted, each on its 
own terrace no larger than a bed ; some, trusting in their 

15 roots, found strength to grow and prosper and be straight 
and large upon the rapid slopes of the valley; others, 
where there w T as a margin to the river, stood marshaled 
in a line and mighty like cedars of Lebanon. Yet even 
where they grew most thickly they were not to be thought 

20 of as a wood, but as a herd of stalwart individuals; and 
the dome of each tree stood forth separate and large, and 
as it were a little hill, from among the domes of its 
companions. They gave forth a faint sweet perfume 
which pervaded the air of the afternoon ; autumn had put 

25 tints of gold and tarnish in the green ; and the sun so 
shone through and kindled the broad foliage, that each 
228 



In the Valley of the Tarn 229 

chestnut was relieved against another, not in shadow, but 
in light. A humble sketcher here laid down his pencil in 
despair. 

I wish I could convey a notion of the growth of these 
noble trees; of how they strike out boughs like the oak, 5 
and trail sprays of drooping foliage like the willow; of 
how they stand on upright fluted columns like the pillars 
of a church ; or like the olive, from the most shattered bole, 
can put out smooth and youthful shoots, and begin a new 
life upon the ruins of the old. Thus they partake of 10 
the nature of many different trees ; and even their prickly 
topknots, seen near at hand against the sky, have a cer- 
tain palm-like air that impresses the imagination. But 
their individuality, although compounded of so many ele- 
ments, is but the richer and the more original. And to 15 
look down upon a level filled with these knolls of foliage, 
or to see a clan of old unconquerable chestnuts cluster 
" like herded elephants " upon the spur of a mountain, is 
to rise to higher thoughts of the powers that are in Nature. 

Between Modestines laggard humor and the beauty 20 
of the scene, we made little progress all that afternoon ; 
and at last finding the sun, although still far from setting, 
was already beginning to desert the narrow valley of the 
Tarn, I began to cast about for a place to camp in. This 
was not easy to find ; the terraces were too narrow, and 25 
the ground, where it was unterraced, was usually too 
steep for a man to lie upon. I should have slipped all 
night, and awakened towards morning with my feet or 
my head in the river. 

After perhaps a mile, I saw, some sixty feet above the 30 
road, a little plateau large enough to hold my sack, and 
securely parapeted by the trunk of an aged and enormous 
chestnut. Thither, with infinite trouble, I goaded and 
kicked the reluctant Modestine, and there I hastened to 



230 Travels with a Donkey 

unload her. There was only room for myself upon the 
plateau, and I had to go nearly as high again before I 
found so much as standing room for the ass. It was on a 
heap of rolling stones, on an artificial terrace, certainly 
5 not five feet square in all. Here I tied her to a chestnut, 
and having given her corn and bread and made a pile of 
chestnut leaves, of which I found her greedy, I descended 
once more to my own encampment. 

The position was unpleasantly exposed. One or two 

10 carts went by upon the road ; and as long as daylight lasted 
I concealed myself, for all the world like a hunted Cami- 
sard, behind my fortification of vast chestnut trunk; for 
I was passionately, afraid of discovery and the visit of 
jocular persons in the night. Moreover, I saw that I 

15 must be early awake; for these chestnut gardens had been 
the scene of industry no farther gone than on the day 
before. The slope was strewn with lopped branches, and 
here and there a great package of leaves was propped 
against a trunk; for even the leaves are serviceable, and 

20 the peasants use them in winter by way of fodder for 
their animals. I picked a meal in fear and trembling, half 
lying down to hide myself from the road; and I daresay 
I was as much concerned as if I had been a scout from 
Joani's band above upon the Lozere, or from Salomon's 

25 across the Tarn, in the old times of psalm-singing and 
blood. Or, indeed, perhaps more; for the Camisards had 
a remarkable confidence in God ; and a tale comes back 
into my memory of how the Count of Gevaudan, riding 
with a party of dragoons and a notary at his saddlebow 

30 to enforce the oath of fidelity in all the country hamlets, 
entered a valley in the woods, and found Cavalier and his 
men at dinner, gaily seated on the grass, and their hats 
crowned with box-tree garlands, while fifteen women 
washed their linen in the stream. Such was a field festi- 



In the Valley of the Tarn 231 

val in 1703; at that date Antony Watteau would be 
painting similar subjects. 

This was a very different camp from that of the night 
before in the cool and silent pine-woods. It was warm 
and even stifling in the valley. The shrill song of frogs, 5 
like the tremolo note of a whistle with a pea in it, rang up 
from the riverside before the sun was down. In the grow- 
ing dusk, faint rustlings began to run to and fro among the 
fallen leaves; from time to time a faint chirping or cheep- 
ing noise would fall upon my ear; and from time to time 10 
I thought I could see the movement of something swift 
and indistinct between the chestnuts. A profusion of 
large ants swarmed upon the ground; bats whisked by, 
and mosquitoes droned overhead. The long boughs with 
their bunches of leaves hung against the sky like garlands; 15 
and those immediately above and around me had somewhat 
the air of a trellis which should have been wrecked and 
half overthrown in a gale of wind. 

Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids; and just as I was 
beginning to feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and settling 20 
densely on my mind, a noise at my head startled me 
broad awake again, and, I will frankly confess it, brought 
my heart into my mouth. It was such a noise as a person 
would make scratching loudly with a finger-nail, it came 
from under the knapsack which served me for a pillow, 25 
and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit up and 
turn about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more was to 
be heard, but a few of these mysterious rustlings far and 
near, and the ceaseless accompaniment of the river and the 
frogs. I learned next day that the chestnut gardens are 30 
infested by rats; rustling, chirping, and scraping were 
probably all due to these ; but the puzzle" for the moment, 
was insoluble, and I had to compose myself for sleep, as 
best I could, in wondering uncertainty about my neighbors. 



232 Travels with a Donkey 

I was awakened in the gray of the morning (Monday, 
30th September) by the sound of footsteps not far off upon 
the stones, and opening my eyes, I beheld a peasant going 
by among the chestnuts by a footpath that I had not 

5 hitherto observed. He turned his head neither to the 
right nor to the left, and disappeared in a few strides 
among the foliage. Here was an escape! But it was 
plainly more than time to be moving. The peasantry were 
abroad ; scarce less terrible to me in my nondescript 

10 position than the soldiers of Captain Poulto an undaunted 
Camisard. I fed Modestine with what haste I could ; but 
as I was returning to my sack, I saw a man and a boy 
come down the hillside in a direction crossing mine. They 
unintelligibly hailed me, and I replied with inarticulate 

15 but cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to get into my 
gaiters. 

The pair, who seemed to be father and son, came 
slowly up to the plateau, and stood close beside me for 
some time in silence. The bed was open, and I saw with 

20 regret my revolver lying patently disclosed on the blue 
wool. At last, after they had looked me all over, and 
the silence had grown laughably embarrassing, the man 
demanded in what seemed unfriendly tones: 
"You have slept here?" 

25 "Yes," said I. "As you see." 
"Why?" he asked. 

" My faith," I answered lightly, " I was tired." 
He next inquired where I was going and what I had 
had for dinner; and then, without the least transition, 

30 " C'est bien" he added, " come along." And he and his 
son, without another word, turned off to the next chest- 
nut-tree but one, which they set to pruning. The thing 
had passed off more simply than I hoped. He was a 
grave respectable man; and his unfriendly voice did not 



In the Valley of the Tarn 233 

imply that he thought he was speaking to a criminal, but 
merely to an inferior. 

I was soon on the road, nibbling a cake of chocolate 
and seriously occupied with a case of conscience. Was I 
to pay for my night's lodging? I had slept ill, the bed was 5 
full of fleas in the shape of ants, there was no water in 
the room, the very dawn had neglected to call me in the 
morning. I might have missed a train, had there been 
any in the neighborhood to catch. Clearly, I was dis- 
satisfied with my entertainment; and I decided I should 10 
not pay unless I met a beggar. 

The valley looked even lovelier by morning; and soon 
the road descended to the level of the river. Here, in a 
place where many straight and prosperous chestnuts stood 
together, making an aisle upon a swarded terrace, I made 15 
my morning toilet in the water of the Tarn. It was 
marvelously clear, thrillingly cool ; the soapsuds disap- 
peared as if by magic in the swift current, and the white 
boulders gave one a model for cleanliness. To wash in one 
of God's rivers in the open air seems to me a sort of cheer- 20 
ful solemnity or semi-pagan act of worship. To dabble 
among dishes in a bed-room may perhaps make clean the 
body; but the imagination takes no share in such a cleans- 
ing. I went on with a light and peaceful heart, and 
sang psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced. 25 

Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank 
demanded alms. 

"Good," thought I; "here comes the waiter with the 
bill." 

And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take 30 
it how you please, but this was the first and the last 
beggar that I met with during all my tour. 

A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man 
in a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a 



234 Travels with a Donkey 

faint excited smile. A little girl followed him, driving 
two sheep and a goat ; but she kept in our wake, while the 
old man walked beside me and talked about the morning 
and the valley. It was not much past six; and for healthy 
5 people who have slept enough, that is an hour of expan- 
sion and of open and trustful talk. 

" Connaissez-vous le Seigneur?" he said at length. 

I asked him what Seigneur he meant; but he only 
repeated the question with more emphasis and a look in 
10 his eyes denoting hope and interest. 

"Ah," said I, pointing upwards, "I understand you 
now. Yes, I know Him; He is the best of acquaintances." 

The old man said he was delighted. " Hold," he added, 

striking his bosom; "it makes me happy here." There 

15 were a few who knew the Lord in these valleys, he went 

on to tell me; not many, but a few. " Many are called," 

he quoted, " and few chosen." 

" My father," said I, "it is not easy to say who know 

the Lord ; and it is none of our business. Protestants 

20 and Catholics, and even those who worship stones, may 

know Him and be known by Him; for He has made all." 

I did not know I was so good a preacher. 

The old man assured me he thought as I did, and re- 
peated his expressions of pleasure at meeting me. " We 
25 are so few," he said. "They call us Moravians here; 
but down in the department of Gard, where there are also 
a good number, they are called Derbists, after an Eng- 
lish pastor." 

I began to understand that I was figuring, in question- 
30 able taste, as a member of some sect to me unknown ; 
but I was more pleased with the pleasure of my companion 
than embarrassed by my own equivocal position. Indeed 
I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a difference; and 
especially in these high matters, where we have all a suffi- 



In the Valley of the Tarn 235 

cient assurance that, whoever may be in the wrong, we 
ourselves are not completely in the right. The truth is 
much talked about; but this old man in a brown night- 
cap showed himself so simple, sweet, and friendly that I 
am not unwilling to profess myself his convert. He was, 5 
as a matter of fact, a Plymouth Brother. Of what that 
involves in the way of doctrine I have no idea nor the 
time to inform myself; but I know right well that we are 
all embarked upon a troublesome w T orld, the children of 
one Father, striving in many essential points to do and 10 
to become the same. And although it was somewhat in 
a mistake that he shook hands with me so often and 
showed himself so ready to receive my words, that was a 
mistake of the truth-finding sort. For charity begins 
blindfold; and only through a series of similar misap- 15 
prehensions rises at length into a settled principle of 
love and patience, and a firm belief in all our fellowmen. 
If I deceived this good old man, in the like manner I 
would willingly go on to deceive others. And if ever at 
length, out of our separate and sad ways, we should all 20 
come together into one common house, I have a hope, to 
which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth Brother 
will hasten to shake hands with -me again. 

Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful by the way, 
he and I came down upon a hamlet by the Tarn. It 25 
was but a humble place, called La Vernede, with less than 
a dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel on a knoll. 
Here he dwelt; and here, at the inn, I ordered my break- 
fast. The inn was kept by an agreeable young man, a 
stonebreaker on the road, and his sister, a pretty and 30 
engaging girl. The village schoolmaster dropped in to 
speak with the stranger. And these were all Protestants 
— a fact which pleased me more than I should have ex- 
pected; and, what pleased me still more, they seemed all 



236 Travels with a Donkey 

upright and simple people. The Plymouth Brother hung 
round me with a sort of yearning interest, and returned at 
least thrice to make sure I was enjoying my meal. His 
behavior touched me deeply at the time, and even now 
5 moves me in recollection. He feared to intrude, but he 
would not willingly forego one moment of my society; 
and he seemed never weary of shaking me by the hand. 

When all the rest had drifted off to their day's work, 
I sat for near half an hour with the young mistress of the 

10 house, who talked pleasantly over her seam of the chestnut 
harvest, and the beauties of the Tarn, arid old family 
affections, broken up when young folk go from home, 
yet still subsisting. Hers, I am sure, was a sweet nature, 
with a country plainness and much delicacy underneath; 

15 and he who takes her to his heart will doubtless be a 
fortunate young man. 

The valley below La Vernede pleased me more and 
more as I went forward. Now the hills approached from 
either hand, naked and crumbling, and walled in the river 

20 between cliffs ; and now the valley widened and became 
green. The road led me past the old castle of Miral on a 
steep; past a battlemented monastery, long since broken 
up and turned into a church and parsonage; and past a 
cluster of black roofs, the village of Cocures, sitting 

25 among vineyards and meadows and orchards thick with 
red apples, and where, along the highway, they were 
knocking down walnuts from the roadside trees, and 
gathering them in sacks and baskets. The hills, however 
much the vale might open, were still tall and bare, with 

30 cliffy battlements and here and there a pointed summit; 
and the Tarn still rattled through the stones with a 
mountain noise. I had been led, by bagmen of a pic- 
turesque turn of mind, to expect a horrific country after 
the heart of Byron ; but tc my Scotch eyes it seemed smil- 



In the Valley of the Tarn 237 

ing and plentiful, as the weather still gave an impression 
of high summer to my Scotch body; although the chest- 
nuts were already picked out by the autumn, and the 
poplars, that here began to mingle with them, had turned 
into pale gold against the approach of winter. 5 

There was something in this landscape, smiling although 
wild, that explained to me the spirit of the Southern 
Covenanters. Those who took to the hills for conscience' 
sake in Scotland had all gloomy and bedeviled thoughts; 
for once that they received God's comfort they would be 10 
twice engaged with Satan ; but the Camisards had only 
bright and supporting visions. They dealt much more in 
blood, both given and taken ; yet I find no obsession of 
the Evil One in their records. With a light conscience, 
they pursued their life in these rough times and circum- 15 
stances. The soul of Seguier, let us not forget, was like 
a garden. They knew they were on God's side, with a 
knowledge that has no parallel among the Scots; for the 
Scots, although they might be certain of the cause, could 
never rest confident of the person. 20 

" We flew," says one old Camisard, " when we heard 
the sound of psalm-singing, we flew as if with wings. 
We felt within us an animating ardor, a transporting 
desire. The feeling cannot be expressed in words. It is 
a thing that must have been experienced to be under- 25 
stood. However weary we might be, we thought no more 
of our weariness and grew light, so soon as the psalms 
fell upon our ears." 

The valley of the Tarn and the people whom I met at 
La Vernede not only explain to me this passage, but the 30 
twenty years of suffering which those, who were so stiff 
and so bloody when once they betook themselves to war, 
endured with the meekness of children and the constancy 
of saints and peasants. 



CHAPTER XIV 



On a branch of the Tarn stands Florae, the seat of a 
subprefecture, with an old castle, an alley of planes, 
many quaint street-corners, and a live fountain welling 
from the hill. It is notable, besides, for handsome women, 
5 and as one of the two capitals, Alais being the other, of 
the country of the Camisards. 

The landlord of the inn took me, after I had eaten, to 
an adjoining cafe, where I, or rather my journey, be- 
came the topic of the afternoon. Every one had some 

io suggestion for my guidance ; and the subprefectorial map 
was fetched from the subprefecture itself, and much 
thumbed among coffee-cups and glasses of liqueur. Most 
of these kind advisers were Protestant, though I observed 
that Protestant and Catholic intermingled in a very easy 

15 manner ; and it surprised me to see what a lively memory 
still subsisted of the religious war. Among the hills of 
the south-west, by Mauchline, Cumnock, or Carsphairn, 
in isolated farms or in the manse, serious Presbyterian 
people still recall the days of the great persecution, and 

20 the graves of local martyrs are still piously regarded. 
But in towns and among the so-called better classes, I 
fear that these old doings have become an idle tale. If you 
met a mixed company in the King's Arms at Wigton, it is 
not likely that the talk would run on Covenanters. Nay, 

25 at Muirkirk of Glenluce, I found the beadle's wife had 
not so much as heard of Prophet Peden. But these Ceve- 
238 



Florae 239 

nols were proud of their ancestors in quite another sense; 
the war was their chosen topic; its exploits were their 
own patent of nobility; and where a man or a race has 
had but one adventure, and that heroic, we must expect 
and pardon some prolixity of reference. They told me 5 
the country was still full of legends hitherto uncollected; 
I heard from them about Cavalier's descendants — not 
direct descendants, be it understood, but only cousins or 
nephews — who were still prosperous people in the scene 
of the boy-general's exploits; and one farmer had seen 10 
the bones of old combatants dug up into the air of an 
afternoon in the nineteenth century, in a field where the 
ancestors had fought, and the great-grandchildren were 
peaceably ditching. 

Later in the day one of the Protestant pastors was so 15 
good as to visit me: a young man, intelligent and polite, 
with whom I passed an hour or two in talk. Florae, he 
told me, is part Protestant, part Catholic; and the differ- 
ence in religion is usually doubled by a difference in 
politics. You may judge of my surprise, coming as I did 20 
from such a babbling purgatorial Poland of a place as 
Monastier, when I learned that the population lived to- 
gether on very quiet terms; and there was even an ex- 
change of hospitalities between households thus doubly 
separated. Black Camisard and White Camisard, militia- 25 
man and Miquelet and dragoon, Protestant prophet and 
Catholic cadet of the White Cross, they had all been 
sabering and shooting, burning, pillaging, and murdering, 
their hearts hot with indignant passion; and here, after a 
hundred and seventy years, Protestant is still Protestant, 30 
Catholic still Catholic, in mutual toleration and mild 
amity of life. But the race of man, like that indomitable 
nature whence it sprang, has medicating virtues of its 
own; the years and seasons bring various harvests; the 



240 Travels with a Donkey 

sun returns after the rain; and mankind outlives secular 
animosities, as a single man awakens from the passions 
of a day. We judge our ancestors from a more divine 
position; and the dust being a little laid with several 
5 centuries, we can see both sides adorned with human 
virtues and fighting with a show of right. 

I have never thought it easy to be just, and find it daily 
even harder than I thought. I own I met these Protes- 
tants with delight and a sense of coming home. I was 

10 accustomed to speak their language, in another and deeper 
sense of the word than that which distinguishes between 
French and English; for the true babel is a divergence 
upon morals. And hence I could hold more free com- 
munication with the Protestants, and judge them more 

15 justly, than the Catholics. Father Apollinaris may pair 
off with my mountain Plymouth Brother as two guile- 
less and devout old men ; yet I ask myself if I had as 
ready a feeling for the virtues of the Trappist; or had 
I been a Catholic, if I should have felt so warmly to the 

20 dissenter of La Vernede. With the first I was on terms 
of mere forbearance; but with the other, although only 
on a misunderstanding and by keeping on selected points 
it was still possible to hold converse and exchange some 
honest thoughts. In this world of imperfection we gladly 

25 welcome even partial intimacies. And if we find but one 
to whom we can speak out of our heart freely, with whom 
we can walk in love and simplicity without dissimula- 
tion, we have no ground of quarrel w T ith the world or 
God, 



CHAPTER XV 

IN THE VALLEY OF THE MIMENTE 

On Tuesday, ist October, we left Florae late in the 
afternoon, a tired donkey and tired donkey-driver. A 
little way up the Tarnon, a covered bridge of wood intro- 
duced us into the valley of the Mimente. Steep rocky 
red mountains overhung the stream; great oaks and chest- 5 
nuts grew upon the slopes or in stony terraces; here and 
there was a red field of millet or a few apple-trees studded 
with red apples; and the road passed hard by two black 
hamlets, one with an old castle atop to please the heart 
of the tourist. 10 

It was difficult here again to find a spot fit for my en- 
campment. Even under the oaks and chestnuts the 
ground had not only a very rapid slope, but was heaped 
with loose stones ; and where there was no timber the hills 
descended to the stream in a red precipice tufted with 15 
heather. The sun had left the highest peak in front of me, 
and the valley was full of the lowing sound of herdsmen's 
horns as they recalled the flocks into the stable, when I 
spied a bight of meadow some way below the roadway 
in an angle of the river. Thither I descended, and, tying 20 
Modestine provisionally to a tree, proceeded to investigate 
the neighborhood. A gray pearly evening shadow filled 
the glen; objects at a little distance grew indistinct and 
melted bafflingly into each other; and the darkness was 
rising steadily like an exhalation. I approached a great 25 
oak which grew in the meadow, hard by the river's brink: 



242 Travels with a Donkey 

when to my disgust the voices of children fell upon my 
ear, and I beheld a house round the angle on the other 
bank. I had half a mind to pack and begone again, 
but the growing darkness moved me to remain. I had 
5 only to make no noise until the night was fairly come, and 
trust to the dawn to call me early in the morning. But 
it was hard to be annoyed by neighbors in such a great 
hotel. 

A hollow underneath the oak was my bed. Before I 

10 had fed Modestine and arranged my sack, three stars were 
already brightly shining, and the others were beginning 
dimly to appear. I slipped down to the river, which 
looked very black among its rocks, to fill my can; and 
dined with a good appetite in the dark, for I scrupled to 

IS light a lantern while so near a house. The moon, which I 
had seen, a pallid crescent, all afternoon, faintly illumi- 
nated the summit of the hills, but not a ray fell into the 
bottom of the glen where I was lying. The oak rose be- 
fore me like a pillar of darkness; and overhead the 

so heartsome stars were set in the face of the night. No one 
knows the stars who has not slept, as the French happily 
put it, a la belle etoile. He may know all their names 
and distances and magnitudes, and yet be ignorant of 
what alone concerns mankind, their serene and gladsome 

25 influence on the mind. The greater part of poetry is 
about the stars; and very justly, for they are themselves 
the most classical of poets. These same far-away worlds, 
sprinkled like tapers or shaken together like a diamond 
dust upon the sky, had looked not otherwise to Roland 

30 or Cavalier, when, in the words of the latter, they had 
" no other tent but the sky, and no other bed than my 
mother earth." 

All night a strong wind blew up the valley, and the 
acorns fell pattering over me from the oak. Yet, on this 



In the Valley of the Mimente 243 

first night of October, the air was as mild as May, and I 
slept with the fur thrown back. 

I was much disturbed by the barking of a dog, an ani- 
mal that I fear more than any wolf. A dog is vastly 
braver, and is besides supported by the sense of duty. 5 
If you kill a wolf, you meet with encouragement and 
praise ; but if you kill a dog, the sacred rights of property 
and the domestic affections come clamoring round you for 
redress. At the end of a fagging day, the sharp cruel 
note of a dog's bark is in itself a keen annoyance; and to 10 
a tramp like myself, he represents the sedentary and 
respectable world in its most hostile form. There is some- 
thing of the clergyman or the lawyer about this engaging 
animal ; and if he were not amenable to stones, the bold- 
est man would shrink from traveling afoot. I respect 15 
dogs much in the domestic circle; but on the highway or 
sleeping afield, I both detest and fear them. 

I was wakened next morning (Wednesday, October 2d) 
by the same dog — for I knew his bark — making a charge 
down the bank, and then, seeing me sit up, retreating 20 
again with great alacrity. The stars were not yet quite 
extinguished. The heaven was of that enchanting mild 
gray-blue of the early morn. A still clear light began to 
fall, and the trees on the hillside were outlined sharply 
against the sky. The wind had veered more to the north, 25 
and no longer reached me in the glen; but as I was going 
on with my preparations, it drove a white cloud very 
swiftly over the hill-top; and looking up, I was surprised 
to see the cloud dyed with gold. In these high regions of 
the air, the sun was already shining as at noon. If only 30 
the clouds traveled high enough, we should see the same 
thing all night long. For it is always daylight in the 
fields of space. 

As I began to go up the valley, a draught of wind came 



244 Travels with a Donkey 

down it out of the seat of the sunrise, although the clouds 
continued to run overhead in an almost contrary direc- 
tion. A few steps farther, and I saw a whole hillside 
gilded with the sun; and still a little beyond, between 
5 two peaks, a center of dazzling brilliancy appeared floating 
in the sky, and I was once more face to face with the big 
bonfire that occupies the kernel of our system. 

I met but one human being that forenoon, a dark 
military-looking wayfarer, who carried a gamebag on a 

10 baldric ; but he made a remark that seems worthy of 
record. For when I asked him if he were Protestant or 
Catholic — 

" O," said he, " I make no shame of my religion. I am 
a Catholic." 

15 He made no shame of it! The phrase is a piece of 
natural statistics; for it is the language of one in a 
minority. I thought with a smile of Bavile and his 
dragoons, and how you may ride rough-shod over a re- 
ligion for a century, and leave it only the more lively for 

20 the friction. Ireland is still Catholic; the Cevennes still 
Protestant. It is not a basketful of law-papers, nor the 
hoofs and pistol-butts of a regiment of horse, that can 
change one tittle of a plowman's thoughts. Outdoor 
rustic people have not many ideas, but such as they have 

25 are hardy plants and thrive flourishingly in persecution. 
One who has grown a long while in the sweat of laborious 
noons, and under the stars at night, a frequenter of hills 
and forests, an old honest countryman, has, in the end, 
a sense of communion with the powers of the universe, 

30 and amicable relations towards his God. Like my moun- 
tain Plymouth Brother, he knows the Lord. His religion 
does not repose upon a choice of logic; it is the poetry 
of the man's experience, the philosophy of the history of 
his life. God, like a great power, like a great shining 



In the Valley of the Mimente 245 

sun, has appeared to this simple fellow in the course of 
years, and become the ground and essence of his least reflec- 
tions; and you may change creeds and dogmas by author- 
ity, or proclaim a new religion with the sound of trumpets, 
if you will ; but here is a man who has his own thoughts, 5 
and will stubbornly adhere to them in good and evil. 
He is a Catholic, a Protestant, or a Plymouth Brother, in 
the same indefeasible sense that a man is not a woman, or 
a woman not a man. For he could not vary from his 
faith, unless he could eradicate all memory of the past, 10 
and, in a strict and not a conventional meaning, change 
his mind. 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 

I was now drawing near to Cassagnas, a cluster of 
black roofs upon the hillside, in this wild valley, among 
chestnut gardens, and looked upon in the clear air by 
many rocky peaks. The road along the Mimente is yet 
5 new, nor have the mountaineers recovered their surprise 
when the first cart arrived at Cassagnas. But although it 
lay thus apart from the current of men's business, this 
hamlet had already made a figure in the history of France. 
Hard by, in caverns of the mountain, was one of the five 

10 arsenals of the Camisards ; where they laid up clothes and 
corn and arms against necessity, forged bayonets and 
sabers, and made themselves gunpowder with willow char- 
coal and saltpeter boiled in kettles. To the same caves, 
amid this multifarious industry, the sick and wounded 

15 were brought up to heal ; and there they were visited by 
the two surgeons, Chabrier and Tavan, and secretly nursed 
by women of the neighborhood. 

Of the five legions into which the Camisards were 
divided, it was the oldest and the most obscure that had 

20 its magazines by Cassagnas. • This was the band of Spirit 
Seguier; men w T ho had joined their voices with his in the 
68th Psalm as they marched down by night on the arch- 
priest of the Cevennes. Seguier, promoted to heaven, was 
succeeded by Salomon Couderc, whom Cavalier treats in 

25 his memoirs as chaplain-general to the whole army of 
the Gamisards* He was a prophet; a great reader of 
846 



The Heart of the Country 247 

the heart, who admitted people to the sacrament or re- 
fused them by " intentively viewing every man " between 
the eyes; and had the most of the Scriptures off by rote. 
And this w r as surely happy; since in a surprise in August 
1703, he lost his mule, his portfolios, and his Bible. It is 5 
only strange that they were not surprised more often and 
more effectually; for this legion of Cassagnas was truly 
patriarchal in its theory of war, and camped without 
sentries, leaving that duty to the angels of the God for 
whom they fought. This is a token, not only of their 10 
faith, but of the trackless country where they harbored. 
M. de Caladon, taking a stroll one fine day, walked with- 
out warning into their midst, as he might have w r alked 
into " a flock of sheep in a plain," and found some asleep 
and some awake and psalm-singing. A traitor had need 15 
of no recommendation to insinuate himself among their 
ranks, beyond " his faculty of singing psalms;" and even 
the prophet Salomon " took him into a particular friend- 
ship." Thus, among their intricate hills, the rustic troop 
subsisted; and history can attribute few exploits to them 20 
but sacraments and ecstasies. 

People of this tough and simple stock will not, as I 
have just been saying, prove variable in religion; nor will 
they get nearer to apostasy than a mere external conform- 
ity like that of Naaman in the house of Rimmon. When 25 
Louis XVI, in the words of the edict, " convinced by the 
uselessness of a century of persecutions, and rather from 
necessity than sympathy," granted at last a royal grace of 
toleration, Cassagnas was still Protestant; and to a man, 
it is so to this day. There is, indeed, o*ne family that is 30 
not Protestant, but neither is it Catholic. It is that of 
a Catholic cure in revolt, who has taken to his bosom a 
schoolmistress. And his conduct, it's worth noting, is 
disapproved by the Protestant villagers. 



248 Travels with a Donkey 

" It is a bad idea for a man," said one, " to go back 
from his engagements." 

The villagers whom I saw seemed intelligent after a 
countrified fashion, and were all plain and dignified in 
5 manner. As a Protestant myself, I was well looked upon, 
and my acquaintance with history gained me farther re- 
spect. For we had something not unlike a religious con- 
troversy at table, a gendarme and a merchant with whom 
I dined being both strangers to the place and Catholics. 
10 The young men of the house stood round and supported 
me; and the whole discussion was tolerantly conducted, 
and surprised a man brought up among the infinitesimal 
and contentious differences of Scotland. The merchant, 
indeed, grew a little warm, and was far less pleased than 
15 some others with my historical acquirements. But the 
gendarme was mighty easy over it all. 

" It's a bad idea for a man to change," said he; and the 
remark was generally applauded. 

That was not the opinion of the priest and soldier at 

20 Our Lady of the Snows. But this is a different race ; and 

perhaps the same great-heartedness that upheld them to 

resist, now enables them to differ in a kind spirit. For 

courage respects courage; but where a faith has been 

trodden out, we may look for a mean and narrow popula- 

25 tion. The true work of Bruce and Wallace was the 

union of the nations; not that they should stand apart 

awhile longer, skirmishing upon their borders; but that, 

when the time came, they might unite with self-respect. 

The merchant was much interested in my journey, and 

30 thought it dangerous to sleep afield. 

" There are the wolves," said he; " and then it is known 
you are an Englishman. The English have always long 
purses, and it might very well enter into some one's 
head to deal you an ill blow some night." 



The Heart of the Country 249 

I told him I was not much afraid of such accidents; 
and at any rate judged ft unwise to dwell upon alarms or 
consider small perils in the arrangement of life. Life 
itself, I submitted, was a far too risky business as a whole 
to make each additional particular of danger worth re- 5 
gard. "Something," said I, "might burst in your inside 
any day of the week, and there would be an end of you, if 
you were locked into your room with three turns of the 
key." 

" Cependant," said he, " coucher dehors!" 10 

"God," said I, "is everywhere." 

" Cependant, coucher dehors!" he repeated, and his 
voice was eloquent of terror. 

He was the only person, in all my voyage, who saw 
anything hardy in so simple a proceeding; although many 15 
considered it superfluous. Only one, on the other hand, 
professed much delight in the idea; and that was my 
Plymouth Brother, who cried out, when I told him I 
sometimes preferred sleeping under the stars to a close 
and noisy alehouse, " Now I see that you know the 20 
Lord!" 

The merchant asked me for one of my cards as I was 
leaving, for he said I should be something to talk of 
in the future, and desired me to make a note of his re- 
quest and reason; a desire with which I have thus 25 
complied. 

A little after two I struck across the Mimente, and 
took a rugged path southward up a hillside covered with 
loose stones and tufts of heather. At the top, as is the 
habit of the country, the path disappeared ; and I left my 30 
she-ass munching heather, and went forward alone to seek 
a road. 

I was now on the separation of two vast watersheds; 
behind me all the streams were bound for the Garonne and 



250 Travels with a Donkey 

the Western Ocean ; before me was the basin of the Rhone. 
Hence, as from the Lozere, you can see in clear weather 
the shining of the Gulf of Lyons; and perhaps from here 
the soldiers of Salomon may have watched for the top- 
5 sails of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, and the long-promised aid 
from England. You may take this ridge as lying in the 
heart of the country of the Camisards; four of the five 
legions camped all round it and almost within view — 
Salomon and Joani to the north, Castanet and Roland to 

10 the south ; and when Julien had finished his famous work, 
the devastation of the High Cevennes, which lasted all 
through October and November, 1703, and during which 
four hundred and sixty villages and hamlets were, with 
fire and pickax, utterly subverted, a man standing on this 

15 eminence would have looked forth upon a silent,, smoke- 
less, and dispeopled land. Time and man's activity have 
now repaired these ruins; Cassagnas is once more roofed 
and sending up domestic smoke; and in the chestnut 
gardens, in low and leafy corners, many a prosperous 

20 farmer returns, when the day's work is done, to his chil- 
dren and bright hearth. And still it was perhaps the 
wildest view of all my journey. Peak upon peak, chain 
upon chain of hills ran surging southward, channeled and 
sculptured by the winter streams, feathered from head to 

25 foot with chestnuts, and here and there breaking out into 
a coronal of cliffs. The sun, which was still far from 
setting, sent a drift of misty gold across the hill-tops, but 
the valleys were already plunged in a profound and quiet 
shadow. 

30 A very old shepherd, hobbling on a pair of sticks, and 
wearing a black cap of liberty, as if in honor of his near- 
ness to the grave, directed me to the road for St. Germain 
de Calberte. There was something solemn in the isolation 
of this infirm and ancient creature. Where he dwelt, how 



The Heart of the Country 251 

he got upon this high ridge, or how he proposed to get 
down again, were more than I could fancy. Not far off 
upon my right was the famous Plan de Font Morte, where 
Poul with his Armenian saber slashed down the Camisards 
of Seguier. This, methought, might be some Rip van 5 
Winkle of the war, who had lost his comrades, fleeing 
before Poul, and wandered ever since upon the mountains. 
It might be news to him that Cavalier had surrendered, 
or Roland had fallen fighting with his back against an 
olive. And while I was thus working on my fancy, I 10 
heard him hailing in broken tones, and saw him waving 
me to come back with one of his two sticks. I had already 
got some way past him ; but, leaving Modestine once more, 
retraced my steps. 

Alas, it was a very commonplace affair. The old 15 
gentleman had forgot to ask the pedlar what he sold, and 
wished to remedy this neglect. 

I told him sternly, " Nothing." 

"Nothing?" cried he. 

I repeated " Nothing," and made off. 20 

It's odd to think of, but perhaps I thus became as in- 
explicable to the old man as he had been to me. 

The road lay under chestnuts, and though I saw a 
hamlet or two below me in the vale, and many lone houses 
of the chestnut farmers, it was a very solitary march all 25 
afternoon; and the evening began early underneath the 
trees. But I heard the voice of a woman singing some 
sad, old, endless ballad not far off. It seemed to be about 
love and a bel amoureux, her handsome sweetheart; and I 
wished I could have taken up the strain and answered her, 30 
as I went on upon my invisible woodland way, weaving, 
like Pippa in the poem, my own thoughts with hers. 
What could I have told her? Little enough; and yet all 
the heart requires. How the world gives and takes away, 



252 Travels with a Donkey 

and brings sweethearts near, only to separate them again 
into distant and strange lands; but to love is the great 
amulet which makes the world a garden; and "hope, 
which comes to all," outwears the accidents of life, and 
5 reaches with tremulous hand beyond the grave and death. 
Easy to say; yea, but also, by God's mercy, both easy and 
grateful to believe! 

We struck at last into a wide white high-road carpeted 
with noiseless dust. The night had come; the moon had 

10 been shining for a long while upon the opposite mountain ; 
when on turning a corner my donkey and I issued our- 
selves into her light. I had emptied out my brandy at 
Florae, for I could bear the stuff no longer, and replaced 
it with some generous and scented Volnay; and now I 

15 drank to the moon's sacred majesty upon the road. It was 
but a couple of mouthfuls: yet I became thenceforth un- 
conscious of my limbs, and my blood flowed with luxury. 
Even Modestine was inspired by this purified nocturnal 
sunshine, and bestirred her little hoofs as to a livelier 

20 measure. The road wound and descended swiftly among 
masses of chestnuts. Hot dust rose from our feet and 
flowed away. Our two shadows — mine deformed with 
the knapsack, hers comically bestridden by the pack — 
now lay before us clearly outlined on the road, and now, 

25 as we turned a corner, went off into the ghostly distance, 
and sailed along the mountain like clouds. From time 
to time a warm wind rustled down the valley, and set all 
the chestnuts dangling their bunches of foliage and fruit; 
the ear was filled with whispering music, and the shadows 

30 danced in tune. And next moment the breeze had gone 
by, and in all the valley nothing moved except our travel- 
ing feet. On the opposite slope, the monstrous ribs and 
gullies of the mountain were faintly designed in the moon- 
shine ; and high overhead, in some lone house, there burned 



The Heart of the Country 253 

one lighted window, one square spark of red in the huge 
field of sad nocturnal coloring. 

At a certain point, as I went downward, turning many 
acute angles, the moon disappeared behind the hill; and 
I pursued my way in great darkness, until another 5 
turning shot me without preparation into St. Germain de 
Calberte. The place was asleep and silent, and buried in 
opaque night. Only from a single open door, some lamp- 
light escaped upon the road to show me that I was come 
among men's habitations. The two last gossips of the 10 
evening, still talking by a garden wall, directed me to the 
inn. The landlady was getting her chicks to bed ; the 
fire was already out, and had, not without grumbling, to 
be rekindled; half an hour later and I must have gone sup- 
perless to roost. 15 



CHAPTER XVII 



THE LAST DAY 



When I awoke (Thursday, 3d October), and, hear- 
ing a great flourishing of cocks and chuckling of contented 
hens, betook me to the window of the clean and comfort- 
able room where I had slept the night, I looked forth 
5 on a sunshiny morning in a deep vale of chestnut gardens. 
It was still early, and the cockcrows, and the slanting 
lights, and the long shadows encouraged me to be out 
and look round me. 

St. Germain de Calberte is a great parish nine leagues 

10 round about. At the period of the wars, and immediately 
before the devastation, it was inhabited by two hundred 
and seventy-five families, of which only nine were Catho- 
lic; and it took the cure seventeen September days to go 
from house to house on horseback for a census. But the 

15 place itself, although capital of a canton, is scarce larger 
than a hamlet. It lies terraced across a steep slope in the 
midst of mighty chestnuts. The Protestant chapel stands 
below upon a shoulder; in the midst of the town is the 
quaint old Catholic church. 

20 It was here that poor Du Chayla, the Christian martyr, 
kept his library and held a court of missionaries; here he 
had built his tomb, thinking to lie among a grateful popu- 
lation whom he had redeemed from error; and hither on 
the morrow of his death they brought the body, pierced 

25 with two-and-fifty wounds, to be interred. Clad in his 
priestly robes, he was laid out in state in the church. The 
254 



The Last Day 255 

cure, taking his text from Second Samuel, twentieth chap- 
ter and twelfth verse, ''And Amasa wallowed in his blood 
in the highway," preached a rousing sermon, and exhorted 
his brethren to die each at his post, like their unhappy 
and illustrious superior. In the midst of this eloquence 5 
there came. a breeze that Spirit Seguier was near at hand; 
and behold! all the assembly took to their horses' heels, 
some east, some west, and the cure himself as far as 
Alais. 

Strange w r as the position of this little Catholic metrop- 10 
olis, a thimbleful of Rome, in such a wild and contrary 
neighborhood. On the one hand, the legion of Salomon 
overlooked it from Cassagnas; on the other, it was cut off 
from assistance by the legion of Roland at Mialet. The 
cure, Louvrelenil, although he took a panic at the arch- 15 
priest's funeral, and so hurriedly decamped to Alais, 
stood well by his isolated pulpit, and thence uttered ful- 
minations against the crimes of the Protestants. Salomon 
besieged the village for an hour and a half, but was beat 
back. The militiamen, on guard before the cures door, 20 
could be heard, in the black hours, singing Protestant 
psalms and holding friendly talk with the insurgents. 
And in the morning, although not a shot had been fired, 
there would not be a round of powder in their flasks. 
Where was it gone? All handed over to the Camisards 25 
for a consideration. Untrusty guardians for an isolated 
priest ! 

That these continual stirs were once busy in St. Ger- 
main de Calberte, the imagination with difficulty receives ; 
all is now so quiet, the pulse of human life now beats so 30 
low and still in this hamlet of the mountains. Boys 
followed me a great way off, like a timid sort of lion- 
hunters; and people turned round to have a second look, 
or came out of their houses, as I went by. My passage 



256 Travels with a Donkey 

was the first event, you would have fancied, since the 
Camisards. There was nothing rude or forward in this 
observation ; it was but a pleased and wondering scrutiny, 
like that of oxen or the human infant; yet it wearied my 

5 spirits, and soon drove me from the street. 

I took refuge on the terraces, which are here greenly 
carpeted with sward, and tried to imitate with a pencil 
the inimitable attitudes of the chestnuts as they bear up 
their canopy of leaves. Ever and again a little wind went 

10 by, and the nuts dropped all around me, with a light and 
dull sound, upon the sward. The noise was as of a thin 
fall of great hailstones ; but there went with it a cheerful 
human sentiment of an approaching harvest and farmers 
rejoicing in their gains. Looking up, I could see the brown 

15 nut peering through the husk, which was already gaping; 
and between the stems the eye embraced an amphitheater 
of hill, sunlit and green with leaves. 

I have not often enjoyed a place more deeply. I moved 
in an atmosphere of pleasure, and felt light and quiet 

20 and content. But perhaps it was not the place alone that 
so disposed my spirit. Perhaps some one was thinking 
of me in another country; or perhaps some thought of my 
own had come and gone unnoticed, and yet done me good. 
For some thoughts, which sure would be the most beauti- 

25 ful, vanish before we can rightly scan their features ; 
as though a god, traveling by our green highways, should 
but ope the door, give one smiling look into the house, 
and go again for ever. Was it Apollo, or Mercury, or 
Love with folded wings? Who shall say? But we go 

30 the lighter about our business, and feel peace and pleasure 
in our hearts. 

I dined with a pair of Catholics. They agreed in the 
condemnation of a young man, a Catholic, who had mar- 
ried a Protestant girl and gone over to the religion of 



The Last Day 257 

his wife. A Protestant born they could understand and 
respect; indeed, the)' seemed to be of the mind of an old 
Catholic woman, who told me that same da)' there was 
no difference between the two sects, save that "wrong 
was more wrong for the Catholic," who had more light 5 
and guidance; but this of a man's desertion filled them 
with contempt. 

" It is a bad idea for a man to change," said one. 

It may have been accidental, but you see how this phrase 
pursued me; and for myself, I believe it is the current 10 
philosophy in these parts. I have some difficulty in 
imagining a better. It's not only a great flight of confi- 
dence for a man to change his creed and go out of his 
family for heaven's sake; but the odds are — nay, and 
the hope is — that, with all this great transition in the 15 
eyes of man, he has not changed himself a hairsbreadth 
to the eyes of God. Honor to those who do so, for the 
wrench is sore. But it argues something narrow, whether 
of strength or weakness, whether of the prophet or the 
fool, in those who can take a sufficient interest in such 20 
infinitesimal and human operations, or who can quit a 
friendship for a doubtful process of the mind. And I 
think I should not leave my old creed for another, chang- 
ing only words for other words ; but by some brave reading, 
embrace it in spirit and truth, and find wrong as wrong for 25 
me as for the best of other communions. 

The phylloxera was in the neighborhood ; and instead 
of wine we drank at dinner a more economical juice of 
the grape — La Parisienne, they call it. It is made by put- 
ting the fruit whole into a cask with water ; one by one the 30 
berries ferment and burst; what is drunk during the day 
is supplied at night in water ; so, with ever another pitcher 
from the well, and ever another grape exploding and giv- 
ing out its strength, one cask of Parisienne may last a 



258 Travels with a Donkey 

family till spring. It is, as the reader will anticipate, a 
feeble beverage, but very pleasant to the taste. 

What with dinner and coffee, it was long past three 
before I left St. Germain de Calberte. I went down be- 
5 side the Gardon of Mialet, a great glaring watercourse 
devoid of water, and through St. Etienne de Vallee Fran- 
chise, or Val Francesque, as they used to call it; and 
towards evening began to ascend the hill of St. Pierre. 
It was a long and steep ascent. Behind me an empty 

10 carriage returning to St. Jean du Gard kept hard upon my 
tracks, and near the summit overtook me. The driver, 
like the rest of the world, was sure I was a pedlar; but, 
unlike others, he was sure of what I had to sell. He had 
noticed the blue wool which hung out of my pack at either 

15 end ; and from this he had decided, beyond my power to 
alter his decision, that I dealt in blue-wool collars, such 
as decorate the neck of the French draught-horse. 

I had hurried to the topmost powers of Mo destine, for I 
dearly desired to see the view upon the other side before 

20 the day had faded. But it was night when I reached the 
summit; the moon was riding high and clear; and only a 
few gray streaks of twilight lingered in the west. A yawn- 
ing valley, gulfed in blackness, lay like a hole in created 
nature at my feet; but the outline of the hills was sharp 

25 against the sky. There was Mount Aigoal, the strong- 
hold of Castanet. And Castanet, not only as an active 
undertaking leader, deserves some mention among Cami- 
sards ; for there is a spray of rose among his laurel ; and 
he showed how, even in a public tragedy, love will have its 

30 way. In the high tide of war he married, in his mountain 
citadel, a young and pretty lass called Mariette. There 
were great rejoicings; and the bridegroom released five- 
and-twenty prisoners in honor of the glad event. Seven 
months afterwards Mariette, the Princess of the Cevennes, 



The Last Day 259 

as they called her in derision, fell into the hands of the 
authorities, where it was like to have gone hard with her. 
But Castanet was a man of execution, and loved his wife. 
He fell on Valleraugue, and got a lady there for a hostage ; 
and for the first and last time in that war there was an 5 
exchange of prisoners. Their daughter, pledge of some 
starry night upon Mount Aigoal, has left descendants to 
this day. 

Modestine and I — it was our last meal together — had 
a snack upon the top of St. Pierre, I on a heap of stones, 10 
she standing by me in the moonlight and decorously eating 
bread out of my hand. The poor brute would eat more 
heartily in this manner; for she had a sort of affection for 
me, which I was soon to betray. 

It was a long descent upon St. Jean du Gard, and we 15 
met no one but a carter, visible afar off by the glint of the 
moon on his extinguished lantern. 

Before ten o'clock we had got in and were at supper; 
fifteen miles and a stiff hill in little beyond six hours! 



CHAPTER XVIII 

FAREWELL, MODESTINE 

On examination, on the morning of October 3d, Modes- 
tine was pronounced unfit for travel. She would need at 
least two days' repose according to the ostler; but I was 
now eager to reach Alais for my letters; and, being in a 
5 civilized country of stage-coacbes, I determined to sell my 
lady-friend and be off by the diligence that afternoon. 
Our yesterday's march, with the testimony of the driver 
who had pursued us up the long hill of St. Pierre, spread a 
favorable notion of my donkey's capabilities. Intending 

10 purchasers were aware of an unrivaled opportunity. Be- 
fore ten I had an offer of twenty-five francs; and before 
noon, after a desperate engagement, I sold her, saddled 
and all, for five-and-thirty. The pecuniary gain is not 
obvious, but I had bought freedom into the bargain. 

15 St. Jean du Gard is a large place and largely Protestant. 
The maire, a Protestant, asked me to help him in a small 
matter which is itself characteristic of the country. The 
young women of the Cevennes profit by the common 
religion and the difference of the language to go largely 

20 as governesses into England ; and here was one, a native 
of Mialet, struggling with English circulars from two dif- 
ferent agencies in London. I gave what help I could ; and 
volunteered some advice, which struck me as being ex- 
cellent. 

25 One thing more I note. The phylloxera has ravaged 
the vineyards in this neighborhood ; and in the early morn- 
260 



Farewell, Modestine 261 

ing, under some chestnuts by the river, I found a party 
of men working with a cider-press. I could not at first 
make out what they were after, and asked one fellow to 
explain. 

"Making cider," he said. " Qui, c'est comme ca. 5 
Com me dans le nord!" 

There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice: the country 
was going to the devil. 

It was not until I was fairly seated by the driver, and 
rattling through a rocky valley with dwarf olives, that I 10 
became aware of my bereavement. I had lost Modestine. 
Up to that moment I had thought I hated her; but now 
she was gone, 

"And, O, 
The difference to me!" 15 

For twelve days we had been fast companions; we had 
traveled upwards of a hundred and twenty miles, crossed 
several respectable ridges, and jogged along w T ith our 
six legs by many a rocky and many a boggy by-road. 
After the first day, although sometimes I was hurt and 20 
distant in manner, I still kept my patience; and as for her, 
poor soul ! she had come to regard me as a god. She 
loved to eat out of my hand. She was~ patient, elegant 
in form, the color of an ideal mouse, and inimitably 
small. Her faults were those of her race and sex; her 25 
virtues were her own. Farewell, and if for ever — 

Father Adam wept when he sold her to me ; after I had 
sold her in my turn, I was tempted to follow his example ; 
and being alone with a stage-driver and four or five 
agreeable young men, I did not hesitate to yield to my 30 
emotion. 



NOTES AND COMMENT 



NOTES AND COMMENT 

(Heavy numerals refer to page; light ones to line.) 

AN INLAND VOYAGE 

The editor is under many obligations to previous editions of An Inland 
Voyage and Travels with a Donkey, especially to Professor W. L. Cross 
and Professor Allan Abbott. 

5. Sir Walter Grindlay Simpson, Bart. (Baronet). It was 
natural that Stevenson should dedicate this volume to the com- 
panion of his voyage. The two had become friends as students 
at the University of Edinburgh, and had been companions on 
canoe, yachting, and walking voyages for several years preced- 
ing this trip. Simpson was the son of Sir James Simpson, who 
in the words of Stevenson " gave chloroform to the world." 
For the part played by Simpson and other friends in Stevenson's 
early life see the Introduction. Stevenson left two sketches of 
his friend; one may be found in Balfour's Life of Stevenson, 
Vol. I, pages 106-107, and the other in the character of Athel- 
red in " Talks and Talkers " in Memories and Portraits. 

5, 1-4. Cigarette and Arethusa: names used both for the 
canoes and for Simpson and Stevenson respectively. Arethusa 
is an appropriate name because of the association of the nymph 
bearing that name with springs and the river-god. The names 
might well have been reversed, for the best-known portraits of 
Stevenson, like the bas-relief by Saint Gaudens, represent him 
with a cigarette in his hand. Stevenson's reason for italicizing 
the words Cigarette and Arethusa is given in one of his letters: 
" a practice only followed in my two affected little books of 
travel, where a typographical minauderie of the sort appeared to 
me in character." For the reference to the " derelict Arethusa," 
see the chapter in this volume on " The Oise in Flood." 

5, 15. Burgee: a swallow-tail flag or pennant; in the mer- 
chant marine service it generally has the ship's name upon it. 
265 



266 Notes and Comment 

5, 17-21. We projected the possession of a canal barge. 
When the two friends first planned the canoe voyage, they in- 
tended to go on down the Loing and the Loire, the Saone and 
the Rhone, to the Mediterranean. When they saw the canal 
barges that are described in the chapter entitled " Sambre and 
Oise Canal: Canal Boats," they decided to undertake the journey 
in a barge. Stevenson's cousin, " Bob " Stevenson, and an 
American friend, the artist Will H. Low, both of whom were 
then living near Fontainebleau, joined with them in the plan. 
They bought the barge and named it The Eleven Thousand 
Virgins of Cologne — a name fancifully suggested by the legend 
of the massacre of St. Ursula and the 11,000 virgins by the 
Huns at Cologne. The plan was soon abandoned. 

7, 1. Stevedore: one who loads and unloads the holds of 
vessels. 

8, 5. Tied my sheet: that is, by a rope or chain from the 
lower corner of the sail to extend or to move it. To tie it in- 
stead of holding it indicates recklessness on the part of the 
sailor. See Stevenson's " y£s Triplex," where the expression 
is used figuratively to express his own attitude to life: "It is a 
well-known fact that an immense proportion of boat accidents 
would never happen if people held the sheet in their hands in- 
stead of making it fast; and yet, unless it be some martinet of a 
professional mariner or some landsman with shattered nerves, 
every one of God's creatures makes it fast. A strange instance 
of man's unconcern and brazen boldness in the face of death." 

9, 26. Bagman: a commercial traveler or "drummer." 

10, 6. Barnacled: a colloquial expression used in Scotland 
for " wearing spectacles," probably from the similarity of spec- 
tacles on the face to barnacles on ships. 

10, 22. Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe. The story of Rich- 
ardson's novel, Clarissa Harlowe, one of the first English novels 
(1748), is told by means of letters that pass between the char- 
acters and notably between Miss Harlowe and her friend Miss 
Howe. Stevenson in one of his letters expresses his great admira- 
tion for the novel and his desire to write a choice work, " A 
Dialogue on Man, Woman, and Clarissa Harlowe": "For any 
man who takes an interest in the problems of the two sexes, that 
book is a perfect mine of documents. And it is written with the 
pen of an angel. . . . Indeed, I can do nothing but recommend 
Clarissa." 



Notes and Comment 267 

10, 25. The divine huntress: Diana, goddess of the moon 
and of chastity. 

10, 27. Anthony: not Mark Antony as has been suggested, 
but an Egyptian abbot of the third and fourth centuries, who, 
by reason of his flight from the world to a sepulcher and other 
retired places, was called the founder of asceticism. In his re- 
tirement, however, he suffered many temptations. 

10, 29. Gymnosophist: one of a sect of ancient Hindu 
philosophers who lived solitarily in the woods, wore little cloth- 
ing, ate no flesh, renounced all bodily pleasures, and addicted 
themselves to mystical contemplation. — Century Dictionary. 

12, 17. C'est vite, mais c'est long. Literally, " It is quick, 
but it is long." 

12, 23. Dingy: same as dingey, a small boat towed behind 
a larger one. The "g" is hard. 

14, 20. Etna cooking apparatus: a vessel consisting of an 
inverted cone placed in a saucer, used for heating water by 
burning alcohol. 

14, 23. A la papier: "in paper." 

15, 1. Loo-warm: the same as luke-tvarm. 

15, 30. Sterlings: pronounced and usually spelt starlings; 
piles driven closely together to serve as breakwater. 

15, 34. Old Dutch print. The old Dutch painters were 
noted for their faithful reproduction of commonplace characters 
and incidents. 

16, 3. Trepanned: cut into the skull for the purpose of re- 
moving pressure on the brain. 

17, 4. Allee Verte: "Green Walk or Lane," consisting of a 
double avenue of limes extending along the canal from Brussels 
toward Laeken. 

17, 10. Estaminet: a cheap coffee-house, where smoking is 
allowed. 

17, 27. "Royal Sport Nautique": "Royal Nautical Sport." 

18, 7. French Huguenots. After the Revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes (1685), thousands of French Protestants fled 
to England and America. One reason why they were not very 
well treated in England was that by the end of the seventeenth 
century the reaction against Puritanism had set in. See the 
" Country of the Camisards " in Travels with a Donkey for an 
account of their persecutions in France. 

18, 31. Entre freres: "between brothers." 



268 Notes and Comment 

18, 33. En Angleterre, etc.: "In England you use sliding- 
seats, don't you ? " 

19, 2. Voyez . . . serieux: "You see, we are in earnest." 

19, 21. The interest they took in their business. See 
Stevenson's "Apology for Idlers": "Perpetual devotion to what 
a man calls his business is only to be sustained by perpetual 
neglect of many other things. And it is by no means certain 
that a man's business is the most important thing he has to do." 

20, 8-9. Mammon . . . Heaven: one of the leaders of 
Satan's hosts, described more fully in the first two books of 
Paradise Lost and more particularly in the first book, lines 679- 
688. 

20, 26. Prophets were unpopular in Judea. What saying 
of Jesus does this suggest? 

21, 23. Drive the coursers of the sun. Phaeton obtained 
permission from Apollo to drive the sun across the heavens, but, 
unable to control the horses, came near setting the world on fire. 

23, 11. A marked man for the official eye. In the "Epi- 
logue to an Inland Voyage," published in Across the Plains, 
with Other Memories and Essays, Stevenson tells of an experi- 
ence that he had on a walking tour in the Loing Valley, when he 
was taken for a spy and imprisoned for several hours. 

23, 15. From China to Peru. Abbott cites the lines from Dr. 
Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes: 

" Let observation, with extensive view, 
Survey mankind from China to Peru." 

23, 19. Murray in hand. John Murray of London published 
guide-books for all the important countries of Europe. They 
have been largely supplanted to-day by Baedeker's. 

24, 6. Knolled to church: a felicitous allusion to As You 
Like It, II, vii, 119-121: 

" True is it that we have seen better days, 
And have with holy bell been knolled to church, 
And sat at good men's feasts." 

24, 20. Grand Cerf : " Great Stag." Compare the names of 
other inns in this volume. 

25, 7. Ccenacula: originally the upper rooms in which feasts 
were held ; then the feasts themselves, as here. 

26, 21. Drake: Sir Francis Drake (i54o?-i596), one of the 
most celebrated explorers and navigators in the time of Queen 
Elizabeth. Among other exploits he made conquests in the West 



Notes and Comment 269 

Indies, discovered the Pacific, and circumnavigated the globe. 
See Stevenson's essay " The English Admirals " in Virginibus 
Pue risque. 

28, 15. Pollards: trees shorn of their tops so that they put 
out dense heads of slender shoots. 

31, 8. Hainaulters: inhabitants of Hainault, a province of 
Belgium bordering on France. 

31, 21. A far way from here. Compare the Scotch expres- 
sion, " We're far frae hame," which Stevenson could never hear 
without being affected as in this passage. See the chapter in 
" The Scot Abroad " in Silverado Squatters, and many letters 
written in the far away islands of the South Seas. " Let me 
hear in some far land, a kindred voice sing out, ' O why left I 
my hame? ' — and it seems as if no beauty under the kind heavens 
and no society of the wise and good can repay me for my ab- 
sence from my country." Again, Alan Breck says in Kidnapped 
that " France is a braw place, nae doubt, but I weary for the 
heather and the deer." 

32, 17. Trousered. The French verb culotter, used of a per- 
son, means to put him in trousers; of a pipe, to color it; hence, 
stained with nicotine. 

32, 24. Sabots: wooden shoes worn by French peasants. 

32, 27. Amphora: among the Greeks and Romans a vessel, 
usually tall and slender, having two handles or ears, a narrow 
neck, and generally a sharp pointed base . . . used for holding 
wine, oil, honey. — Century Dictionary. 

33, 2. Francs. A franc is approximately twenty cents. 
33, 3. Brave: fine, handsome. 

33, 4. Caparison: in the Middle Ages, an ornamental robe 
thrown over a horse; hence any rich trappings. 

34, 22. Jove . . . adventure. There are many mythological 
stories of Jupiter and the other gods wandering from Olympus 
to the earth and being guided or entertained by unsuspecting 
mortals. 

36, 17. Auberge: "an inn." 

37, 20. Bread-berry: made by pouring boiling water on 
toasted bread and then sweetening it; it is generally a food for 
sick people. 

37, 22. Swipes: a vulgarism for poor washy beer. 
37, 32. Hedge: of such kind as is met by the wayside; hence, 
mean, inferior. 



270 Notes and Comment 

38, 8. Lucretian maxim. Lucretius was a Roman philoso- 
pher and poet of the first century B.C. Stevenson probably had 
no particular maxim in mind. 

39, 5. Lilies and skylarks. Christ's remark about the lilies 
of the field readily suggests itself. Shelley in his poem on the 
skylark dwells upon the difference between the joyful, rapturous 
life of the skylark and the melancholy life of the human 
race. 

40, 1. Moliere's farce. In Les Precieuses Ridicules Moliere, 
the greatest of French dramatists, represents some noblemen 
breaking suddenly in upon their lady loves, who are being 
entertained by lackeys disguised as noblemen. 

40, 22. Kepi: a flat-topped military cap with horizontal vizor. 

41, 16. Galette: a broad thin cake. 

45, 3. Voila . . . debarbouiller: "There's some water for 
washing your faces." 

45, 11-12. Waterloo . . . Austerlitz. A Frenchman would 
naturally prefer to call the firecrackers after one of his coun- 
try's victories, Austerlitz for example, rather than Waterloo, 
which would remind him of France's greatest disaster. Like- 
wise he would not relish the numerous reminders of Waterloo 
in arriving from Southampton at the Waterloo station in Lon- 
don, or in crossing the Waterloo bridge In the city. 

45, 18. Kilometer: in the metric system about five-eighths 
of a mile. 

46, 15. Mormal. The word means "an inflamed sore." 
Stevenson may also have in mind the etymology of the word — 
mort, dead, and mal, evil. 

47, 9. I wish our way had always lain among woods. 
For Stevenson's love of the forest see Travels with a Donkey 
and the essays " Forest Notes " and " Fontainebleau." 

47, 20. Heine. Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) was the only 
German poet except Goethe that Stevenson knew anything about. 
His Harzreise, an account of a journey through the Harz 
mountains, may have been read by Stevenson when he and Simp- 
son walked through the same mountains in 1872. 

47, 21. Merlin . . . Broceliande. In Tennyson's Idylls of 
the King, Merlin, the great magician of King Arthur's court 
and the founder of the Round Table, and Vivien, the slanderer, 
flee to the wild woods of Broceliande, where in the midst of 
a fearful storm Vivien gets from him his secret: 



Notes and Comment 271 



" Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and fame." 
48, 13. Jeremiads: a reference to the Book of Lamentations 
by the Hebrew prophet, Jeremiah. 

50, 13. Bedlamite: a madman; originally an inmate of Bed- 
lam, a London hospital for the insane. 

50, 23. Marshal Clarke: one of Napoleon's generals, and, as 
his epitaph reminds us, sometime minister of war. 

50, 26. Reveilles: a signal by drum or bugle notifying sol- 
diers that it is time to rise and for sentinels to cease challenging. 

51, 21. Lyonnese costermongers: street hawkers of fruits 
and vegetables. The principal city of Lyonnais, an ancient prov- 
ince of France, was Lyons. 

51, 25. Alma and Spicheren. The first is a river in Crimea, 
near the mouth of which in 1854 the Russians were defeated 
by the Allies, and the latter a village in Lorraine, Germany, 
where the Germans defeated the French in 1870. 

51, 33. Your dull ass will not mend his pace. See Steven- 
son's experience in Travels with a Donkey. 

52, 26. Juge de Paix: in France an officer of more importance 
than our "justice of the peace." 

52, 27. Sheriff Substitute. The chief sheriff, usually called 
simply the sheriff, may have more than one substitute under him, 
and the discharge of the greater part of the duties of the office 
now rests with the sheriff substitutes, the sheriff being a prac- 
tising advocate in Edinburgh, while the sheriff-substitute is pro- 
hibited from taking other employment, and must reside within his 
county. — Century Dictionary. 

55, 10. Archangel: the chief commercial town in the north 
of Russia, and long the only seaport. 

55, 14. Loch Carron: a lake on the western coast of Scot- 
land, where Stevenson's friend, Professor Jenkin, lived. 

58, 6. Rouen: formerly the capital of Normandy, now an 
important point on the Seine. 

58, 27. Canaletti. Literally the word means little canals; 
Stevenson uses the word to signify those who live on the canal 
barges. 

58, 30. Cependant: nevertheless. 

5g, 12. Mr. Moens. The book referred to is Through France 



272 Notes and Comment 

and Belgium by River and Canal in the Steam Yacht Ytene, 
R.V.Y.C. (1876). 

60, 28. Colza: a plant grown for its oily seeds. 

61, 26. Pan once played upon their forefathers. The story- 
was deeply significant to Stevenson. In one of his letters he says: 
" There is more sense in that Greek myth of Pan than in any 
other that I recollect except the luminous Hebrew one of the 
Fall." In his essays on Pan's Pipes in Virginibus Puerisque he 
says: "The Greeks figured Pan, the god of Nature, now terribly 
stamping his foot, so that armies were dispersed; now by the 
woodside on a summer noon trolling on his pipe until he charmed 
the hearts of upland plowmen. And the Greeks in so doing 
uttered the last word of human experience." He then interprets 
the good and the bad effects of Pan's music as symbolic of the 
two forces in nature and in human life. 

61, 33. Centaur ... nymph. In Greek mythology, the 
Centaur was a monster half-man and half-horse. The reference 
here is to a legend that at a certain marriage the Centaurs car- 
ried away the bride and other women. 

62, 31. Every bit of brisk living, etc. Elsewhere Stevenson 
says: "If only I could secure a violent death, what a fine suc- 
cess! I wish to die in my boots; no more land of counterpane 
for me. To be drowned, to be shot, to be thrown from a horse 
— aye, to be hanged rather than pass through that slow dis- 
solution." 

63, 19-20. Burns . . . Mountain Daisy: a reference to 
Robert Burns's poem, To a Mountain Daisy. 

63, 28-30. The spinners and the young maids, etc.: 
" O, fellow, come, the song we had last night! 

Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; 

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones 

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, 

And dallies with the innocence of love, 

Like the old age." — Twelfth Night, II, iv, 42-46. 

64, 7. Heritors: in Scotland such proprietors of land or houses 
as are liable for taxation. 

64, 12. Birmingham-hearted substitutes: bells manufactured 
in Birmingham, England. For a passage on Stevenson's delight 
in bells, see Travels with a Donkey. 

68, 9. O France, mes amours: "O France, my love." 



Notes and Comment 273 

68, 16. Les malheurs de France: "The misfortunes of 
France." 

68, 26. Against the Empire: that is, many Frenchmen did 
not blame Germany so much as Napoleon the Third, who was 
responsible for the war and, therefore, for the loss of Alsace and 
Lorraine. 

69, 3. Farmer George: George the Third, so called from 
his simple appearance and manners, and his interest in a farm 
near Windsor. — Abbott. 

69, 19. Caudine Forks: two passes in the mountains of Italy 
where the Romans suffered a humiliating defeat by the Samnites 
(321 B.C.). 
69, 22. Consents Frangais: "French conscripts." 
69, 29. Fletcher of Saltoun: Andrew Fletcher (1655-1716), 
a Scotch politician and political writer, now chiefly remembered 
as having said: "If a man were permitted to make all the bal- 
lads, he need not care who made the laws of a nation." 

69, 33. Paul Deroulede: a French poet and politician, who 
in addition to writing the volume referred to here, Chants du 
Soldat {"Songs of the Soldier"), organized the League of 
Patriots, whose object was to arouse the patriotic feeling of 
the nation against Germany. 

70, 33. Othello over again. The lines in Shakespeare's 
Othello, I, iii, 128-170, are alluded to; especially appropriate to 
Stevenson's recital would be: 

" I spake of most disastrous chances ; 
Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' th' imminent deadly breach." 
74, 18. Tristes tetes de Danois: "Sad Danish heads." 

74, 19. Gaston Lafenestre. The words of Stevenson give 
sufficient information. The importance of this and the fol- 
lowing paragraphs is the light they throw on Stevenson's life 
with the artists at Fontainebleau and Barbizon. The inn re- 
ferred to is Siron's, the free and easy life of which is set forth 
in the author's essay on Fontainebleau. See the Introduction. 

75, 21. Jacques: Charles Emile Jacques (1813-1894), a 
French painter and engraver, author of admirable water-colors, 
the subjects of which are generally taken from the life of the 
fields. 

75, 24. National Gallery: the principal art gallery of Eng- 
land, situated on Trafalgar Square in London. 



274 Notes and Comment 

76, 23. Proletarian: one of the common people; specifically, a 
day laborer. 

77, 19. Pro indiviso: "all together." 

77, 23. Eh bien! sacristi: "Well! Thunder!" 

78, 13. Eh bien, quoi, c'est magnifique: " Well ! ah, — that's 
magnificent ! " 

79, 4-6. Inquisition: a court or tribunal established by the 
Roman Catholic Church for the examination and punishment of 
heretics. Stevenson suggests that the best way for a modern to 
understand what the tortures were is to read Edgar Allan Poe's 
story, The Pit and the Pendulum, and Corporal Trim's sermon 
in Tristram Shandy, a novel written by Laurence Sterne in the 
eighteenth century. The corporal's brother had been a captive 
for fifteen years. 

79, 23. Nanty Ewart: a captain of a smuggling vessel in 
Scott's Redgauntlet. 

79, 31-2. Communist . . . Communard. A communist is 
a socialist who wants to have goods in common. A communard 
is a person who wishes for an extreme development of local 
government. In 1871 the Communards of Paris wished to make 
Paris an independent government. 

81, 3. Cock-and-bull story: an incredible and absurd story; 
in allusion to some fable about a cock and bull, or in general 
allusion to the strain on credulity produced by the fables of 
y£sop and his imitators, in which cocks moralize and bulls de- 
bate. — Century Dictionary. 

84, 34. Siphon: a pipe through which the river was carried 
under the canal. 

85, 14. Siege of La Fere. The town was bombarded and 
captured by the Germans (Prussians) in 1870. 

85, 14. Niirnberg figures. Niirnberg (Nuremberg) in Ger- 
many is famous for its toys, dolls, and carved wooden figures. 
85, 21. C'est bon, n'est-ce pas? "It is good, isn't it?" 
89, 3. Timon: hero of Shakespeare's Timon of Athens, a 
typical misanthrope. 

89, 29. Bazin . . . de Malte: "Bazin, innkeeper; lodging 
for pedestrians. At the Maltese Cross." 

90, 9-10. Zola's description. Cross locates the passage in 
L'Assommoir, chapter three — a realistic novel of the working- 
class of Paris. Emile Zola (1840-1902) was the originator of 
the naturalistic novel of France that has had such a great influ- 



Notes and Comment 275 

ence on European literature. The Louvre is the leading art 
gallery of Paris and by many considered the greatest in the 
world. 

94, 10. Hotel de Ville: "Town Hall." 

94, 15. Hotel du Nord: "Northern Hotel." 

95, 9. Sacristan: an officer of a cathedral or monastery who 
has charge of the treasures of the church and who arranges 
all objects for divine service. 

96, 9 — 98, 5. Miserere . . . Jubilate Deo . . . Ave Maria. 
These are all hymns used in the services of the Roman Catholic 
Church, — the fine old Latin hymns of the Middle Ages. The 
first is the beginning of the Fifty-first Psalm as found in the 
Vulgate Bible, — "Have pity upon me, O Lord"; the second 
suggests the beginning of the Sixty-sixth and the Hundredth 
Psalms, "Shout for joy unto the Lord"; while the third is the 
Hymn to the Virgin Mary, " Hail Mary, pray for us." 

100, 14. Deo Gratias . . . Four Sons of Aymon. The 
names of these canal barges are as fanciful as those of the 
canoes of Stevenson and his companion. The former is a 
Latin expression, meaning " Thanks to God," and the latter 
suggests a romance of the Middle Ages of that name. 

103, 23. Louis XII: king of France (1498-1515), called the 
father of his people. 

104, 18. Niirnberg clock. See note on Niirnberg figures, 
page 85. 

104, 25. Via Dolorosa: the way along which Christ walked 
to Golgotha, hence the " Dolorous Way." 

108, 30. Feuilletons: in French newspapers, a part of one 
or more pages (the bottom) devoted to literature or criticism, 
and generally marked off from the rest of the page by a heavy 
line. Frequently, as in this case, the feuilleton is a serial story. 

109, 28. Sauterne: white wine from the district of Sauterne 
near Bordeaux. Compare the district called Champagne in the 
passage on page 100, line 24. 

109, 34. Bradshaw's Guide: a large book giving the rail- 
road time-tables of all European countries; so called from 
George Bradshaw, the originator. 

no, 4. Walt Whitman: an American poet (1819-1892). 
For his influence on Stevenson see the essay on Whitman in 
Familiar Studies of Men and Books. 

in, 24. Nirvana: a condition in which one loses individual 



276 Notes and Comment 

consciousness, the absorption of the soul into the All-Soul — a 
state to which the followers of Buddha aspire as the highest 
good. 

114, 10. Great Assizes: the Last Judgment; originally a 
session of a court for trial by jury. 

115, 33. Ex voto: "as a votive offering." 

116, 20. Saint Joseph: the husband of the Virgin Mary. 

117, 16. Saint Dominic. As founder of the order of the 
Dominicans, he would naturally be honored in Roman Catholic 
churches; while as the originator of the rosary (a chaplet of 
beads used in honor of the Virgin), he would be especially 
commemorated by the Association of the Living Rosary men- 
tioned by Stevenson. 

117, 17. Saint Catherine of Sienna: an Italian saint who 
joined the order of St. Dominic. 

117, 24, Zelatrice: a nun especially zealous in the work of the 
sisterhood to which she belonged. 

117, 25. Choragus: in Greece, the leader of a chorus or 
superintendent of a theatrical representation; here, leader of a 
chorus. 

117, 28. Dizaine: ten prayers. 

118, 7. Exciseman. Burns was a revenue officer in his last 
years. 

118, 26. Euclid: a Greek mathematician, whose geometry was 
formerly in general use. 

120, 12. Marionettes: puppets moved by strings, as on a 
mimic theatrical stage, to imitate human or animal movements. 

120, 22. Bumper house: crowded house. 

122, 10. English aff-'n-aff: English half and half; a mix- 
ture of porter and ale. 

122, 29. " 'Tis better to have loved and lost": quoted 
from Tennyson's In Memoriam, XXVII. 

122, 31. Endymion: a beautiful youth in Greek legend." He 
was beloved by Selene (the moon), who put him to sleep in a 
cave on Mount Latmus. In the line below, Stevenson is think- 
ing of the appearance of the goddess to the young man, as de- 
scribed by Keats in his poem Endymion. 

122, 31. Audrey: a country girl in Shakespeare's As You Like 
It. 

123, 16. A wandering violinist. One of Stevenson's best 
short stories is Providence and the Guitar, based on the wan- 



Notes and Comment 277 

derings of a strolling player and his wife whom he met at 
Grez. 

123, 13. Chateau Landon: a village in the valley of the 
Loing, twenty miles south of Fontainebleau. Stevenson and his 
friend had taken a walking trip along the valley in the year 
preceding the canoe voyage. This place, like all the region 
round about Fontainebleau, belonged to the division of France 
known as the Department of Seine and Marne. 

124, 27-35. Mesdames . . . trompe. "Ladies and gentle- 
men, Mademoiselle Ferrario and Monsieur de Vauversin will 
have the honor of singing this evening the following pieces. 
Mademoiselle Ferrario will sing ' Mignon,' ' Birds on the Wing,' 
' France,' ' Frenchmen sleep there,' ' The Blue Castle,' ' Where 
are you going?' M. de Vauversin will sing 'Madame Fontaine 
and Monsieur Robinet,' 'The Divers on Horseback,' 'The Dis- 
contented Husband,' 'Be Quiet, Boy,' 'My Queer Neighbor,' 
' Happy like That,' ' How We are Deceived.' " 

125, 1. Salle-a-manger: "dining-room." 

125, 15-19. Chatelet . . . Alcazar: a well-known theater and 
a music hall in Paris. 

125, 34. Maire: "mayor." 

127, 2. Tenez . . . dire: "See here, gentlemen, I will tell 
you." 

127, 19. Pyramus and Thisbe: the story of two lovers of 
Babylon, first told by Ovid in his Metamorphoses, and played 
by Bottom and his fellow-actors in Shakespeare's Midsummer 
Night's Dream. 

127, 20. Alexandrines: lines of verse with six iambic feet, 
the most frequently used form of verse in French. The name is 
due to the use of the line in the French romances on Alexander 
the Great. 

127, 27. Unities . . . classical rules. The French, of all 
modern people, have maintained the so-called classical rules 
that the events of a drama should be represented as occurring 
in one place alone (unity of place), that the time should not 
extend over twenty-four hours (unity of time), and that the 
plot should be simple (unity of plot). 

127, 31. Patois: a dialect of the province as contrasted with 
the French of Paris. 

129, 7. Theophile Gautier: a French poet, essayist, and 
novelist (1811-1872). 



278 Notes and Comment 



Questions and Topics for Discussion 

1. At what period of his life and under what circumstances 
did Stevenson take the "inland voyage"? 2. What can you say 
as to his companion as revealed in the notes, the preface, and in 
the book itself? 3. What were some of Stevenson's character- 
istics as a traveler? 4. Give some idea of the canoes and of 
the part they play in the story. 5. With the aid of the map and 
the text make out a plan of the journey day by day. 6. Com- 
ment on the variety of scenes along the rivers and canals, not- 
ing in detail some of the most important descriptive passages 
as showing the author's love of nature. 7. What experiences do 
they have at the various inns? 8. What were some of the most 
agreeable and disagreeable incidents of the voyage? 9. Char- 
acterize some of the most picturesque types seen along the way, 
noting especially the children, the fishermen, the Royal Nautical 
Sportsmen, the driver of the hotel omnibus, the traveling 
merchant and his family, the family living on the canal barge, 
the solitary plowman, the strolling players and actors, the 
proletarian and his friends, the Bazins, and the three girls of 
Origny Sainte-Benoite. 10. What may be learned of French 
characteristics and customs from the book, and what contrasts 
between the French and the English are noted? Do any pas- 
sages indicate the author's Scotch birth and training? 11. 
What is said of the patriotic songs of France? 12. Comment 
on the author's views of forests and cathedrals. 13. Comment 
on his use of classical stories, such as Diana and the nymphs, 
and Pan and his reeds. 14. Select some short essays from the 
volume, indicating the author's views of life, as, for instance, 
the relative importance of business and leisure, the evil of 
cynicism, the necessity for charity and tolerance, the good and the 
evil aspects of nature, etc. 15. Quote some of the best sentences. 
16. Give illustrations of Stevenson's apt use of quotation from 
other writers. Did he always quote accurately? 17. Study in 
detail three or four of the best chapters of the book, and draw 
some conclusions as to Stevenson's style — his use of similes and 
metaphors, alliteration, melody, vividness of narration, beauty 
€>f description, etc, j$, Give some illustrations of his humor. 



TRAVELS WITH 
A DONKEY 

Route of Travel: 




TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 

133, 1. Sidney Colvin: an English critic; formerly Professor 
of Fine Arts at Cambridge, he has been for many years keeper 
of prints and drawings in the British Museum. For his rela- 
tion to Stevenson see the Introduction and the Descriptive 
Bibliography. He was Stevenson's intimate friend and his 
literary executor. 

I 33> 5- John Bunyan (1628-1688): author of Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress, to which there are many references in Stevenson's letters 
and books. It is included in his essay on " Books Which Have 
Influenced Me " as one of the formative influences on his life 
and style. 

^■35' (Quotation). Antigone: a Greek play by Sophocles, a 
Greek dramatist of the fourth century B.C. The passage is a 
free translation of lines 332-352. For the Biblical quotation, 
see Job, xxxix, 5. 

137, 1. Le Monastier. In an extended essay entitled " A 
Mountain Town in France," Stevenson writes in a charming 
way of this village and of his experiences there. 

*37> 6-7. Legitimists . . . Republicans. The Legitimists 
were supporters of the elder Bourbon line of Louis XIV, the 
reigning line deposed by the French Revolution ; their suc- 
cessors were restored for a short period after the downfall of 
Napoleon. The Orleanists were supporters of the Orleans 
branch of the French royal family descended from Louis XIV's 
younger brother, the Duke of Orleans. After the overthrow 
of the Bourbons in 1830, one of the Orleanists, Philippe Egalite, 
reigned till the Revolution of 1848, when the second Republic 
was founded. In 1852 Napoleon the Third restored the Em- 
pire, and the Imperialists were in power till 1870, when the 
third Republic was established. Since that date the Republicans 
have been in power. These parties still exist in France, and 
the various descendants of the three royal families, though liv- 
ing in exile, maintain their rights to the throne. Stevenson 
281 



282 Notes and Comment 

does not exaggerate the bitterness of these royal party disputes. 
If he were writing to-day he would have to add another party to 
the list, the Socialist. See the passage in the Inland Voyage on 
the proletarian, pages 76 ff. 

138, 1. Poland. This comparison is suggested twice more in 
this book. Find the passages. Poland, on account of its fre- 
quent partitions by the surrounding nations, Russia, Prussia, and 
Austria, was a fit symbol of political confusion, as is also 
Babylon, from its association with the Tower of Babel, whence 
came the confusion of tongues. 

138, 9. Cevennes: a range of mountains in Southwestern 
France. 

139, 19. Respirator: a device, as a screen of fine wire or 
gauze, worn over the mouth or nose ; used by persons having 
weak lungs, to moderate or sift the air. 

141, 9. Spencer: a coat like a buttoned sweater. 

141, 18. Beaujolais: a wine named, like other French wines, 
from the district which produces it. 

141, 28. Vaticinations: predictions. 

141, 29. Christian: the hero of Pilgrim's Progress; his pack 
is the burden of his sins. 

145, 26. Et vous marchez comme ga! "And you walk like 
that ! " 

146, 3. Deus ex machina: a Latin expression, meaning "a 
god (let down) from the machine"; an allusion to ancient 
theatrical machinery when a god suddenly appeared to solve an 
intricate plot. The peasant had helped Stevenson in time of 
need. 

146, 23. A countryman of the Sabbath. The strict observ- 
ance of Sunday by the Puritans and Scotch Presbyterians has 
become proverbial. The "ascetic feast" is a felicitous allusion 
to the cold Sunday dinners. 

147, 10. Homer's Cyclops. Abbott cites the Odyssey, Bk. 
IX, and translates: "Here a man-monster slept, who shepherded 
his flock alone and far apart; with others he did not mingle, 
but quite aloof followed his lawless ways." 

147, 23. Like a sucking-dove: an allusion to Bottom the 
weaver's words in Midsummer Night's Dream, I, ii. 84: "I will 
aggravate my voice that I will roar you as gently as any sucking- 
dove." 

148, 23. Hypothec. From its original meaning of the lien 



Notes and Comment 283 

that the Scotch landlord took on the crop and stock of his 
tenant, the word came to be used colloquially for " the whole 
lot " or " the whole substance." 

149, 16. Acolytes. The name is given to those who belong 
to the highest of the four minor orders of the clergy; their duty 
is to carry the wine and water and lights in the ceremonies of 
the church. 

150, 12. Cruelly I chastised her. See the passage in An In- 
land Voyage, p. 51. 

155, 5. Dur comme un ane: "tough as an ass." 
158, 17. Sent to Versailles. When this wolf was killed in 
1787, Versailles — near Paris — was the residence of the French 
kings. It was natural that an animal so much talked about 
for twenty years should be of interest to the king and his bril- 
liant court. 

158, 19. Alexander Pope (1688-1744): the leading English 
poet of the eighteenth century. No one has succeeded in locating 
the exact passage here quoted. The law of association of ideas 
may explain Stevenson's bringing together in this passage Na- 
poleon (the Little Corporal), Pope, who was of diminutive size, 
and the wolf of Gevaudan, which turned out to be very small. 

158, 21. M. Elie Berthet: a French novelist, who wrote 
Bete du Gevaudan about the time this book was published. 

159, 2. Caryatides: columns in the form of sculptured female 
figures; used to support the cornices of Greek buildings. 

159, 17. D'ou'st que vous venez? "Where did you come 
from ? " 

164, 17. Chains and reverences. Chains are figures in a 
dance where dancers going in opposite directions take each 
other's right and left hands, alternately; reverences here means 
bows. — Abbott. 

164, 20. Herbert Spencer (1820-1903) : a celebrated English 
philosopher, founder of the system named by himself the synthetic 
philosophy. At one time he had a very important influence on 
Stevenson. The point here is that one who knew the scientific 
point of view of Spencer would scarcely be affected by any- 
thing " eerie " or fantastic. 

166, 26. A little farther lend thy guiding hand: an allusion 
to the first two lines of Milton's Samson Agonlstes: 
" A little onward lend thy guiding hand, 
To these dark steps a little on." 



284 Notes and Comment 

167, 16. C'est que, voyez-vous, il fait noir. "It is dark, 

you see." 

167, 19. Mais — c'est — de la peine. " But — that is — some 
trouble." 

167, 23. Ce n'est pas ga. " That's not it." 

167, 33-4. C'est vrai . . . vous. "That's true; yes, it's true. 
And where did you come from?" 

168, 13. Farceuse: "a roguish jester," "a tease." 

169, 2. Filia barbara pater barbarior: " a barbarous daugh- 
ter, a more barbarous father." 

170, 16. Bambino: the Italian word for baby; more specifi- 
cally, an image of the. child Jesus. 

170, 20. Neat brandy: clear, undiluted brandy. 

171, 32. Peyrat's Pastors of the Desert: a history of the 
Protestant movement in France from the Revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes (1685) to the French Revolution (1789). The 
use made by Stevenson of this volume may be seen in the 
chapters on the Camisards. 

172, 6. Ulysses, left on Ithaca. Ulysses, after the Trojan 
War and after ten years of wandering, returns to Ithaca under 
the guidance of the goddess Athena, who at first puts a mist 
around him so that he does not know where he is. 

172, 30. The day was tiptoe on the threshold of the east. 
Stevenson may have had in mind Shakespeare's lines in Romeo 
and Juliet: 

" Night's candles are burnt out and jocund day 
Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops." 
174, 4. Lady of all Graces: the Virgin Mary. 
174, 16. Balquidder and Dunrossness: remote Scotch vil- 
lages. 

176, 13. ^Esop: the generally accepted author of the most 
famous collection of Greek fables. Cross points out the fact 
that Stevenson had in mind one of La Fontaine's fables — " The 
Miller, his Son, and the Ass." 

177, 16. Fifty quintals. A quintal is about 220 pounds. 

178, 4. Deal. The name is applied to boards of pine or fir. 

180. Our Lady of the Snows. This monastery, which re- 
ceives its name from its location in the snow-covered mountains, 
appealed strongly to Stevenson as representative of the Roman 
Catholic faith. In his poem entitled " Our Lady of the Snows," 
he criticises the aloofness of the monks from the noble war of 



Notes and Comment 285 

mankind, and suggests that God may, in His search for those 
who have sown gladness on the peopled lands, pass by "the 
unsought volunteers of death." In one of his letters he says: 
" My sympathies flow never with so much difficulty as towards 
Catholic virtues "; and yet one of the strongest pieces of prose he 
ever wrote was in defense of Father Damien's leper colony near 
Honolulu. 

180, Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) : an English poet and 
critic. The poem quoted from is " Stanzas from the Grande 
Chartreuse" — a description and interpretation of one of the most 
famous monasteries of France, situated like " Our Lady of the 
Snows" in the high mountains (the Alps). 

181, 25. Languedocian Wordsworth. The most famous 
poets of Mediaeval France lived in Languedoc, formerly an inde- 
pendent kingdom in what is now Southern France. William 
Wordsworth (1770-18 50) was an English poet who loved so 
much the solitude of the lake district of Northern England 
that he resented the introduction of railroads into that section. 
Stevenson alludes to a sonnet written by the poet in 1844, having 
as its first line, " Proud were ye mountains when in times of 
old." Stevenson had in mind the two lines: 

"Heard ye that whistle? As her long-linked train 
Swept onward, did the vision cross your view?" 

182, 24. Sheets of characters. Stevenson when a boy used 
to purchase from an Edinburgh bookseller pictures to represent 
the actors in plays which he performed at his toy theater. See 
his essay in Memories and Portraits entitled " A Penny Plain 
and Two-pence Colored." 

183, 16. Marco Sadeler: a Dutch engraver. 

184, 21. Dr. Pusey. Edward Bouverie Pusey (1800-1882) 
was an English theologian who, along with Newman and Keble, 
sought to introduce more ritualism and some of the practices of 
the Roman Catholic Church into the Church of England. They 
thought that the only refuge from the growing liberalism of the 
age was to be found in magnifying Church creeds and rites. 
Newman finally went over to the Roman Catholic Church, and 
the monk here prays that Pusey may do likewise. 

185, 22. Father Hospitaler: one who, in addition to his care 
of the sick and the poor, looked after the guests and pilgrims. 

187, 10. MM. les retraitants: men who have retired from 
active life to seek repose and to enjoy religious meditation. 



286 Notes and Comment 

They do not take the vow. The ones in this monastery are 
described in the following chapter. 

187, 12. Imitation. The exact title is De Imitatione Christi 
("The Imitation of Christ"), one of the most popular devo- 
tional books of the world; generally ascribed to Thomas a 
Kempis, a German mystic of the fifteenth century. 

187, 13. Elizabeth Seton (1774-1821): founder of the Ro- 
man Catholic Order of the Sisters of Charity, of which she 
was the first Mother Superior. 

187, 17. Cotton Mather (1663-1728) : one of the most zealous 
and scholarly of the early New England preachers, especially 
known for his Ecclesiastical History of New England and for 
his persecutions of the witches. He would therefore be espe- 
cially shocked at the introduction of Roman Catholicism into 
New England. 

187, 26. Le temps libre . . . resolutions. " One's leisure 
is used in the examination of conscience, in confession, and in 
making good resolutions." 

188, 14. Breviaries: books containing the daily offices 
(prayers), which all who are in major orders are bound to 
read. 

188, 14. Waverley novels. Of this series of novels by Sir 
Walter Scott Quentin Durivard would naturally be appropriate 
for this particular place, for its scene is laid in France. 

188, 21. Veuillot: Louis Veuillot (1813-1883), a French 
journalist and author who vigorously supported the cause of the 
Roman Catholic Church in France at the time of the Second 
Empire. 

188, 21. Chateaubriand: Francois Rene Auguste, Vicomte de 
Chateaubriand (1768-1848). He was especially dear to all 
Catholics because, after the anarchy of the French Revolution, 
he set forth in the most eloquent prose the glory of the Catholic 
Church in his Spirit of Christianity, and told the stories of the 
martyrs in a book by that name. It was largely through his 
writings that Catholicism became the religion of the Empire 
under Napoleon. 

188, 21. Odes et Ballades: the first volume of poems pub- 
lished by Victor Hugo (1802-1885), when he was a Catholic 
and monarchist. His later books would scarcely find a place 
in a Catholic library because of their bitter attacks on the 
Church. 



Notes and Comment 287 

188, 22. Moliere. See note to Inland Voyage, p. 40. 

188, 23. Fathers: the Fathers of the Church, such as Saint 
Augustine. 

189, 24. Carafe: decanter. 

190, 28. Phalansteries: buildings occupied as dwellings by a 
community living together; the term used originally of com- 
munistic societies is here used in a more general sense. Steven- 
son refers to the communities of artists at Fontainebleau. 

190, 30. Cistercian rule. The Cistercian order of monks led 
a contemplative and very ascetic life, forming a sort of re- 
ligious republic. Silence and the exclusion of women were two 
of their rules. Stevenson has here a sly allusion to the break- 
ing up of the Fontainebleau " phalanstery " by the coming in of 
his future wife whose " sweet eyes and caressing accent " al- 
lured him from his Bohemian life. 

191, 14. Chapter-room: the room where the monks transact 
the business of the order. 

191, 14. Refectory: the dining hall. 

192, 16. Compline and Salve Regina. The Compline is 
the last service of the day, coming just after the Vespers. The 
Salve Regina ("Hail, Queen of Compassion") is a hymn to 
the Virgin Mary, sung at certain times of the year after the 
Compline. 

193, 10. Que t'as de belles filles, etc. 

" How many pretty girls you have, 
Girofle! Girofla ! 
How many pretty girls you have, 
Love will take count of them." 
This is an old French song, which Stevenson had doubtless heard 
sung by French children. Girofle is the French name for the 
gilliflower. There is also a light opera founded on the old song, 
in which Girofle and Girofla are twin sisters. 

195, 4. Red ribbon of a decoration: the badge of the Legion 
of Honor. 

195, 17. Nick of life. Compare the expression "nick of 
time." 

195, 34. Gambetta's moderation. Leon Gambetta (1838- 
1882) was one of the leaders in the formation of the third 
Republic after the downfall of the Empire in 1870. He was 
a moderate as compared with the Radical Socialists and Com- 
munists, but to the Catholics he was an opponent of the union 



288 Notes and Comment 

of church and state. The prejudice against him was all the 
greater because of Jewish blood in his veins. 
196, 4. Comment, monsieur? "How, sir?" 

196, 27. Et vous pretendez, etc. " And you mean to die in 
that kind of faith?" 

197, 8. My father's face. See Introduction for the rigorous 
faith of his father. 

197, 9. Gaetulian lion. The expression Gatulus leo occurs in 
Horace's Odes (I, xxiii, 10). 

198, 15-16. C'est mon conseil, etc. "That is my advice as 
an old soldier, and this gentleman's as a priest." 

198, 21. Grig: cricket or grasshopper. 

198, 30. Indian critic: an English writer in India. 

198, 30. Faddling hedonist: trifling pleasure-seeker. 

199, 25. La parole est a vous. " That's your word (judg- 
ment)." 

201. Old play. This quotation is found in Stevenson's volume 
of poems. He follows Scott in writing a motto for his chapter 
and in ascribing it to an old dramatist, probably to give thereby 
an antique flavor. 

203, 24. He, bourgeois; il est cinq heures! "Hey, citizen; 
it is five o'clock! " 

204, 30. Bourree: a country dance. 

205, 11. Feyness: a superstitious presentiment of an impend- 
ing doom. 

207, 10. In a more sacred, etc. As was often the case, 
Stevenson quotes inaccurately; the passage is from Milton's 
Paradise Lost, Bk. IV, lines 705-708. 

208, 18. Arcana: mysteries. 

208, 23. Montaigne (1533-1592): the greatest of French es- 
sayists, referred to many times in Stevenson's essays as one of 
his favorite authors, and particularly as one whom he " aped " 
when he was trying to learn how to write. Cross cites Mon- 
taigne's essay on " Experience " for Stevenson's remark on sleep. 

208, 28. Bastille. The Bastille in the days before the French 
Revolution was the state prison of France and therefore the 
symbol of despotism. 

210, 4. To live out of doors with the woman a man loves. 
This is one of several love passages in the book. Strangely 
enough, just two years later, Stevenson was to have this wish ful- 
filled in the mining-camp in California. 



Notes and Comment 289 

213. Camisards: a name given to the French Protestants of 
the Cevennes, who took up arms in defense of their civil and 
religious liberty early in the eighteenth century. They were so 
called from the white blouses worn by the peasants who were 
the chief actors in the insurrection. The succeeding chapters 
suggest some of the most prominent leaders and incidents in the 
war, which lasted from July, 1702, to December, 1705. 

213, 9. W. P. Bannatyne: an assumed name for Stevenson 
himself. 

216, 6. Like stout Cortez, etc.: a quotation from Keats's son- 
net "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer." 

216, 33. The Grand Monarch: Louis the Fourteenth, who 
ruled France during the persecution referred to here (1638- 

I7i5)- 

217, 14. Roland. Stevenson's references to him and other 
leaders on both sides give sufficient information. 

217, 18. Cavalier. Jean Cavalier (1680-1740). He was not 
only one of the heroes of this revolt ; but, as Stevenson suggests, 
he spent the latter part of his life in English territory, not only 
as governor of the Isle of Jersey but as a participant in the 
wars with Spain. Stevenson at one time planned a poem on 
him, and a longer study of the Camisards, of which Cavalier 
was to be the principal character. He wrote to his friend Ed- 
mund Gosse asking him for material: "I have splendid ma- 
terial for Cavalier till he comes to my country; and there, 
though he continues to advance in the service, he becomes en- 
tirely invisible to me." Though he never carried out his plan 
of writing a history, his biographer tells us that he left some 
peems on Cavalier. 

218, 16. Florentin: a Roman Catholic brigand; so called 
from St. Florent, a small town on the river Cher, where the 
Florentins were organized. 

221, 5-6. Carlisle . . . Dumfries. The first is in England, 
the other just across the line in Scotland. See Stevenson's essay 
on " The Foreigner at Home " in Memories and Portraits for 
some comparisons between English and Scotch traits. 

222, 26. Patet dea: "the goddess appears." 

223, 3. Archbishop Sharpe. James Sharpe (1613-1679), Arch- 
bishop of St. Andrews, was murdered by the Covenanters of 
Scotland, because he had deserted the cause of Scotch Presby- 
terianism and had set up the Episcopal system of religion. 



290 Notes and Comment 

Scott's novel Old Mortality graphically tells the story of his 
murder and of the results that followed. 

223, 13. Marshal Villars (1653-1732). As Marshal of 
France, he finally suppressed the rebellion. 

224, 8. Pariah: a social outcast. 

225, 19. Vine: vine-stocks. 

225, 20. Scavenger's Daughter: an instrument of torture in- 
vented in the reign of Henry the Eighth ; it compressed the body 
into a ball, sometimes so as to cause blood to exude. 

225, 27. Baal: the chief god of the Canaanites, often wor- 
shiped by the Israelites. To the Protestants the worship of 
images in the Catholic churches was no better than that of 
Baal. 

226, 33. Captain Poul: a daring soldier who had fought in 
Germany and Hungary and in the Alps. 

228, 6. Killiecrankie: a pass in the Scotch Highlands, where 
Claverhouse, one of the most popular of Scottish heroes, fell. 

231, 1. Antony Watteau (1684-1721) : a French painter, who 
was especially noted for his representation of shepherd life, 
rustic dances, and rural festivals. 

232, 30. C'est bien. " That's good." 

234, 7. Connaissez-vous le Seigneur? "Do you know the 
Lord?" 

234, 25. Moravians: members of the Christian denomination 
which traces its origin to John Huss, the earliest of all the 
Reformation leaders. From their original home in Bohemia and 
Moravia they have scattered to Great Britain, Germany, and 
the United States. 

234, 27. Derbists: a religious sect founded in conjunction 
with others by John Nelson Derby (1 800-1 882), a clergyman of 
the Church of England. One of their first meeting-houses was 
at Plymouth, England, which became the center of a movement 
which spread rapidly through England and afterward through 
Switzerland and southern France. "The Plymouth Brethren," 
as they were called, rejected all ecclesiastical forms and denomi- 
national distinctions, aiming at one universal Christian brother- 
hood. — Cross. 

235, 24. Christian and Faithful: another allusion to Pil- 
grim's Progress, and especially to the sentence in the eleventh 
chapter: "They went very lovingly together, and had sweet dis- 
course of all that happened to them in their pilgrimage." 



Notes and Comment 291 

236, 34. Byron (1 788-1 824). Stevenson may have had in 
mind either the third canto of Childe Harold with its descrip- 
tions of the Alps or some of his wilder Eastern tales. 

238, 2. Subprefecture: subdivision of a department of France. 

238, 17. Mauchline, etc. The towns mentioned here and a 
few lines below are all in the southwestern part of Scotland 
and are associated with the struggles and persecutions of the 
Covenanters. One thinks inevitably of Scott's Old Mortality, 
the hero of which wandered here and there seeking for the neg- 
lected graves and monuments of the forgotten worthies. 

238, 26. Prophet Peden: Alexander Peden (died in 1686), 
one of the most zealous of the Covenanting preachers, noted 
especially for the devotion that he inspired among the peasants 
and for his remarkable escapes from his persecutors. Stevenson 
in one of his last letters said: "When I was a child, and in- 
deed until I was nearly a man, I consistently read Covenanting 
books. Now that I am a gray-beard ... I have returned, 
and for weeks back have read little else. ... Of course this 
is with the idea of a novel, but in the course of it I made a 
very curious discovery. . . . My style is from the Covenanting 
writers." See the Introduction for the influence of his faithful 
nurse, who first recited to him these exciting stories. 

239, 27. Catholic cadet of the White Cross: so called from 
a white cross sewed on the hat. The ferocious band was organ- 
ized by a hermit. The members were sometimes known as the 
White Camisards, in distinction from the Black Camisards, an- 
other band of robbers led by a butcher. The Miquelet was a 
name applied to other bandits countenanced by the king of 
France; so called from a band of robbers in the Pyrenees under 
the leadership of Miquelet. — Cross. 

240, 20. Dissenter: one who refuses to conform to the estab- 
lished church; used more specifically of those in England who 
do not belong to the Church of England. 

242, 22. A la belle etoile: "under the open sky." 

243, 3. The barking of a dog. These remarks suggest the 
author's essay on the " Character of Dogs " in Memories and 
Portraits. 

247, 25. Naaman in the house of Rimmon. See 2 Kings, 
v, 18. 

247, 26. Louis XVI: the ill-fated King of France at the time 
of the French Revolution. 



292 Notes and Comment 

248, 25. Bruce and Wallace. While Robert Bruce (1274- 
1329) and William Wallace (i274?-i305) resisted with all their 
might the invasion of Scotland by the English, they yet, by in- 
spiring their countrymen with high ideals of national inde- 
pendence and courage, paved the way for a more substantial 
union of the two people in the eighteenth century. 

249, 10. Cependant, coucher dehors! "Still, to sleep out- 
doors! " 

250, 5. Sir Cloudesley Shovel (1650-1707) : an English ad- 
miral, who at the time referred to was commander of a fleet in 
the Mediterranean. The English, who at the time were ene- 
mies of France, naturally sided with the Camisards. 

250, 10. Julien: a soldier of fortune sent by the French gov- 
ernment into the district to lay it waste and to slaughter the 
people. 

251, 27. The voice of a woman. Compare Wordsworth in 
"The Solitary Reaper": 

"Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago." 

251, 32. Pippa in the poem: a reference to Robert Brown- 
ing's well-known poem, Pippa Passes, in which Pippa, who works 
in a silk-mill, spends her one holiday of the year in singing 
joyful songs as she passes through the streets. 

252, 2. Distant and strange lands. Of what incident in 
Stevenson's own life are these lines prophetic? 

257, 27. Phylloxera: an insect which is the worst enemy of 
grape-vines. 

261, 5-6. Oui . . . nord! "Yes, it is like that. Just as in 
the North ! " 

261, 14. And, O, the difference to me: the conclusion of 
Wordsworth's poem " She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways." 



Questions and Topics for Discussion 

1. How much time elapsed between the two journeys and 
what were the most important incidents in Stevenson's life in 
the meantime? 2. Why did he go alone the second time? 3. 
What similarities and contrasts can you draw between the two 
books — as to scenery, types of men and women, views of life, 



Notes and Comment ' 293 

style, etc. ? 4. With the aid of the map and with the author's 
dates make up a general plan of the journey day by day. 5. 
Cite some of the most important descriptive passages, indicating 
thereby some of the aspects of the mountains through which 
Stevenson passed. 6. Write a short account of Modestine and the 
part she plays in the story. To what extent does she serve as a 
companion for her master? Give illustrations of the author's 
humor and sentiment in writing of her. 7. What does Steven- 
son take with him in the way of dress, food, drink, and books? 
8. What are the most striking adventures of the journey? 9. 
Give in your own words a summary of the two chapters " A 
Camp in the Dark " and " A Night Among the Pines." 10. Give 
a description of the monastery, Our Lady of the Snows — its loca- 
tion, its rules of conduct, the various types of monks and board- 
ers, the library and other rooms, the conversations that take 
place, and Stevenson's general reflections on religion and life. 
n. Give a description of the country of the Camisards and an 
account of the main incidents and leaders in the war waged 
between Catholics and Protestants. 12. Why was Stevenson 
more in sympathy with the Protestants than with the Catholics? 
13. What parallels does he draw between the Protestants in this 
war and the Covenanters of Scotland? 14. What passages can 
you cite to show his tolerance in religion and his sense of 
humor at seeing the way in which different sects pelt each other 
with evangelists and tracts? 15. Give an account of his meeting 
with the Plymouth Brother and with other types not hitherto 
mentioned, such as Clarisse and the inhospitable peasants. 16. 
In one of his letters Stevenson says that a good deal of this 
volume is "mere protestation to Fanny" (later to be his wife) ; 
what passages can you cite to give illustrations of the truth of 
this remark? 17. Cite some of the most lyrical descriptions of 
nature. 18. Answer the questions 14-18 as given in "Questions 
and Topics for Discussion " on the Inland Voyage. 



jEwQlish IReafcmgs tor Scfoools 

Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University, General Editor 

Addison: Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. 

Edited by Nathaniel E. Griffin, Princeton University. 
Arnold: Sohrab and Rustum, and Other Poems. 

Edited by Walter S. Hinchman, Groton School. 

Browning: Selections. 

Edited by Charles W. Hodell, Goucher College, Baltimore 
Bunyan: Pilgrim's Progress, Part I. 

Edited by John H. Gardiner, Harvard University. 
Burke: On Conciliation. 

Edited by Daniel V. Thompson, Lawrenceville School. 
Byron: Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 

Edited by Hardin Craig, University of Minnesota. 

Defoe: Robinson Crusoe. 

Edited by Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University. 
Dickens : Tale of Two Cities. 

Edited by E. H. Kemper McComb, Manual Training High 

School, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Eliot: Silas Marner. 

Edited by Ellen E. Garrigues, De Witt Clinton High 
School, New York City. 

Franklin : Autobiography. 

Edited by Frank W. Pine, Hill School, Pottstown, Pa. 
Gray: Elegy and Other Poems, with Goldsmith: The 

Deserted Village and Other Poems. Edited by Morric 

W. Croll, Princeton University. 

Huxley: Selections. 

Edited by Charles Alphonso Smith, University of Virginia. 

Irving: Sketch Book. 

Edited by Arthur W. Leonard, Phillips Academy, Andover, 

Mass. 

Lincoln: Selections. 

Edited by William D. Armes, University of California. 

Macaulay: Life of Johnson. 

Edited by Chester N. Greenough, Harvard University. 

Macaulay: Lord Clive and Warren Hastings. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University, and 
Samuel Thurber, Jr., Technical High School, Newton, Mass. 



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Milton: Lyric and Dramatic Poems. 

Edited by Martin W. Sampson, Cornell University. 

Old Testament Narratives. 

Edited by George H. Nettleton, Yale University. 

Scott: Quentin Durward. 

Edited by Thomas H. Briggs, Eastern Illinois State Normal 
School, Charleston, 111. 

Scott: Ivanhoe. 

Edited by Alfred A. May, Shattuck School, Faribault, Minn. 

Scott: Lady of the Lake. 

Edited by Alfred M. Hitchcock, Public High School, Hart- 
ford, Conn. 

Shakespeare: Macbeth. 

Edited by Felix E. Schelling, University of Pennsylvania. 

Shakespeare: Merchant of Venice. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University. 

Shakespeare: Julius Caesar. 

Edited by Ashley H. Thorndike, Columbia University. 

Shakespeare: As You Like It. 

Edited by John W. Cunliffe and George Roy Elliott, 
University of Wisconsin. 

Stevenson: Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey. 
Edited by Edwin Mims, University of North Carolina. 

Stevenson: Treasure Island. 

Edited by Stuart P. Sherman, University of Illinois. 

Tennyson: Idylls of the King. 

Edited by John Erskine, Columbia University. 

Thackeray: English Humorists. 

Edited by William Lyon Phelps, Yale University. 

Washington: Farewell Address, with Webster: First 
Bunker Hill Oration. Edited by William E. Simonds, Knox 
College, Galesburg, 111. 

Wordsworth: Selections. Also from Coleridge, Shelley, 
and Keats. Edited by James W. Linn, University of 
Chicago. 

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